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Edward  A.Steiner 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OLD  TRAILS  AND 
NEW  BORDERS 


By  EDWARD  A.  STEINER 

Old  Trails  and  New  Borders 

Cloth net  ;5!i.50 

Uncle  Joe's  Lincoln 

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Nationalizing  America 

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Introducing  the  American  Spirit 

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From  Alien  to  Citizen 

The  Story  of  My  Life  in  America. 

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The  Immigrant  Tide — Its  Ebb 
and  Flow 

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On  the  Trail  of  the  Immigrant 

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Against  the  Current 

Simple  Chapters  from  a  Complex  Life. 

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The  Broken  Wall 

Stories  of  the  Mingling  Folk. 

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The  Mediator 

A  Tale  of  the  Old  World  and  the  New. 

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Tolstoy, THE  Man  and  His  Message 

A    Biographical    Interpretation.     Revised  and 

enlarged. 

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The  Doctor  Dog 

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The  Parable  of  the  Cherries 

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The  Cup  of  Elijah 

Idyll  Envelope  Series.     Decorated  .  net  .25c. 


OLD  TRAILS  AND 
NEW  BORDERS 


By 
EDWARD  A.  STEINER 

Author  of  "On  the  Trail  of  the  Immigrant," 
"From  Alien  to  Citizen,"  etc. 


New  York  Chicago 

Fleming     H.     Revell     Company 

London        and        Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1921,  hj 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York :  1 58  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  1 7  North  Wabash  Ave. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh :       75     Princes     Street 


To  my  friettds 
"THE   FRIENDS" 

both  English  and  American 

this  book 

is  affectionately  dedicated 


152493 


Introduction 

ALL  of  us  see  events  through  our  moods, 
"  as  in  a  glass  darkly,"  and  I  do  not  pro- 
fess to  have  seen  Europe  but  with'  a 
heavy  heart  and  a  depression  of  spirit,  which 
was  not  lifted  because  American  money  could  buy 
almost  anything  my  heart  desired,  or  because  the 
pleasure  spots  were  brighter  than  ever. 

My  cheer,  and  there  was  enough,  lay  in  two 
solemn  facts  which  turned  my  faith  into  assur- 
ance. First,  that  there  is  a  moral  order  in  the 
universe,  and  God  is  on  the  side  of  the  right;  and 
the  second,  that  the  only  way  to  overcome  evil  is 
through  good. 

I  am  greatly  indebted  to  the  Friends  Service 
Committee  of  Philadelphia  for  making  my  jour- 
ney through  Europe  possible.  If  my  criticism  of 
its  work  of  relief  abroad  turns  often  into  a  pane- 
gyric it  is  due  to  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  much 
human  frailty  In  the  endeavour,  the  net  result  of 
its  work  is  of  profound  spiritual  value. 

I  owe  much  gratitude  to  Alfred  Scattergood, 
the  head  of  the  German  mission,  to  Doctor  Hilda 
Clark  and  Elizabeth  Pye,  of  the  mission  in 
Vienna,  and  to  all  the  dear  comrades  who  ranged 

7 


8  INTEODUCTION 

in  their  religious  beliefs  from  Quakers  to  Roman 
Catholics,  and  who  everywhere  glorified  their 
faith  in  the  forgiving  and  redeeming  Christ. 

Seven  of  these  chapters  were  printed  in  the 
New  York  Independent,  and  are  here  reprinted 

with  the  publisher's  permission. 

E.  A.  S. 
Grinnell,  Iowa. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The  Immigrant's  Faith 

• 

II 

II. 

The  Rainbow  Flat  . 

i8 

III. 

A  Narrow  Escape    . 

27 

IV. 

The  Lure  of  Europe 

1 

35 

V. 

The  New  Steerage  . 

42 

VI. 

The  Old  Cabin 

51 

VII. 

The  Cost  of  "  La  Patrie  " 

59 

VIII. 

The  Shadow  of  the  Hills 

71 

IX. 

The  Gray  Dawn 

82 

X. 

Ships  and  Guns 

.      96 

XI. 

Sin  and  Sacrifice    . 

.     104 

XII. 

Finis  Austria  . 

.     112 

XIII. 

The  Merry  Widow  . 

.     120 

XIV. 

New  Barriers  for  Old 

.     131 

XV. 

Madam  Poland 

.     147 

XVI. 

The  Mind  of  Europe 

.     166 

XVII. 

Vice  Versa 

.     184 

XVIII. 

The  Last  Border     . 

• 

.     199 

THE  IMMIGRANT'S    FAITH 

HAPPY  was  the  man  who  was  young,  a 
Christian,  and  who  Hved  in  America  be- 
fore the  war.  He  wore  a  triple-plated 
armour  of  optimism.  He  believed  in  progress,  in 
brotherhood,  and  in  himself,  to  help  bring  about 
the  new  day,  foretold  by  prophets,  whose  golden 
dawn  they  strained  their  vision  to  see.  I  was  thus 
happy  and  armoured.  I  saw  visions,  large  visions 
and  wholesome,  and  voiced  them  with  ardour  and 
in  faith. 

History  to  me  then  was  a  noble  pageant ;  none 
of  this  semi-theatrical  stuff  by  which  we  are  now 
trying  to  glorify  the  past:  Kings  with  pasteboard 
crowns,  knights  swathed  in  cotton  batting,  coun- 
terfeit immigrants  bowing  before  Columbia  all 
done  in  bunting,  and  held  together  by  safety  pins 
as  she  welcomes  the  whole  world  into  her  ample 
lap;  and  the  crowning  feature,  angels  in  white 
nightgowns,  singing:  "  My  Country  'Tis  of 
Thee " 

My  pageant  was  slow  moving,  through  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  years,  from  cave  and  lake  dwelling 
to  hearth  and  fireside;  from  clan,  and  tribe,  and 

II 


12        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

race,  to  native  country,  and  my  native  country  was 
always  America;  tlie  leader  from  man's  still  low 
estate  was  America,  the  culminating  apex,  a  glori- 
fied America.  I  had  visions  of  a  United  States  of 
the  World,  the  capitol  at  Washington  a  gigantic 
wedding  cake  at  the  marriage  feast  of  the  nations, 
Uncle  Sam  the  bridegroom,  and  humanity  the 
bride. 

My  America  was  not  an  armour-plated  super- 
nation,  whose  strength  was  ordained  by  big 
Berthas,  whose  might  was  right,  and  whose  wis- 
dom was  the  art  of  killing — but  a  human  and  hu- 
mane America,  blending  in  herself  the  discordant 
elements  of  mankind  and  creating  a  new  type  of 
state,  wider  than  geographic  boundaries,  broader 
than  race  and  deeper  than  creed;  still  it  was 
America,  a  glorified,  spiritualized  America ;  a  not 
unworthy,  Apocalyptic  successor  to  the  tarrying 
New  Jerusalem. 

I  had  faith,  not  only  in  America  and  her  people, 
but  in  the  broken  fragments  of  the  human  race, 
drifted  here  by  the  ill  winds  blowing  across  the 
Old  World. 

And  my  faith  was  not  blind.  To  keep  alive 
the  best  of  America  against  so  much  of  the 
worst  of  Europe,  I  urged  an  ardent  Americanism, 
a  practice  of  rather  stern  virtues,  an  illumined 
Puritanism.  I  did  warn  against  intolerance, 
against  the  zeal  of  the  converter,  against  the  hope 
that  law  could  create  loyalty,  against  the  use  of 


THE  IMMIGEANT'S  FAITH  13 

sharp  acids  on  the  bright  spots  of  strange  customs 
and  folk  life.  I  believed  that  in  spite  of  the  alien 
crowds,  as  much  of  the  American  spirit  would 
remain  as  we  would  guard  and  nourish. 

I  never  minimized  this  peril  of  a  million  new 
people  coming  full  grown  into  our  already  crowded 
life,  even  if  they  were  the  best,  and  I  never  said 
Amen,  when  they  were  praised  as  cheap  labour  and 
their  rough  palms  appraised  at  so  much,  to  keep 
our  children  soft  handed.  I  knew  that  they  would 
rise  and  ask  for  more  and  better  bread,  and  for 
justice  in  shops  and  courts,  and  that  the  labour 
world's  longings  would  come  to  them  sooner  or 
later ;  for  ideas  need  no  passports,  they  travel  upon 
the  air.  They  would  ask  for  all  the  good  things 
we  possessed,  for  the  low  standard  of  living  was 
not  biological  but  sociological. 

This  faith  in  the  immigrant  was  merely  a  part 
of  my  larger  faith  in  the  human  race. 

When  my  vision  of  a  new  day  was  so  clear  that 
I  believed  I  saw  the  dawn;  when  I  believed  the 
world  was  ready  for  a  universal  embrace;  when  I 
saw  an  ascending  civilization  and  America  at  its 
highest  pinnacle;  when  I  had  the  faith  and  cour- 
age to  condemn  war  as  wholly  inhuman  and  out 
of  keeping  with  Christian  standards  and  ideals,  a 
pistol  shot  was  fired  in  Serajevo  whicTi  plunged 
the  world  into  war,  and  my  orderly  pageant  be- 
came a  stampede. 

I  watched  the  passing  of  the  war  fever  and  the 


14        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

coming  of  the  Saint  Vitus  dance  of  peace,  from  the 
large  vantage  ground  of  New  York,  to  which  city 
I  moved  temporarily,  to  study  the  reaction  of  the 
war  on  immigrant  groups. 

Our  tenement  house  was  bounded  to  the  north 
by  Italy,  to  the  east  and  southeast  by  Bohemia,  to 
the  south  and  west  by  Poland  and  Russia,  mostly 
Ghetto,  and  to  the  west  by^  America,  a  not  too 
healthy  spinal  column  running  through  Manhattan 
Island,  and  called  Fifth  Avenue. 

Our  immediate  neighbours  were  Irish  (the  police 
station  being  next  door),  Italians  and  Jews.  The 
kind  of  flat  we  occupied  was  called  a  "  railroad 
flat,"  probably  because  the  rooms  all  ran  hori- 
zontally like  cars,  two  rooms  of  equal  length,  the 
kitchen,  and  the  bathroom,  the  caboose. 

I  called  our  flat  a  union  suit,  because  the  two 
rooms  were  really  one,  and  my  wife  was  properly 
shocked  when  I  thus  spoke  of  our  New  York  home 
to  our  friends.  She  called  It  her  rainbow  flat,  be- 
cause she  had  glorified  it  with  a  splash  of  red  from 
a  mandarin  skirt,  a  few  choice  pieces  of  wedge- 
wood,  brass  candlesticks  and  dainty  curtains. 

We  found  the  whole  East  Side  flagged,  shabby 
flags  of  course,  worn  by  weather  and  by  waving. 
There  were  streamers  and  banners,  and  there  were 
.very  few  flats  whose  windows  displayed  no  stars, 
many  of  them  paled  into  gold.  The  East  Side  was 
coming  out  of  the  war  enthusiasm  more  slowly 
than  the  rest  of  America,  for  there  the  masses  live 


THE  IMMIGRANT'S  FAITH  15 

pressed  close,  and  the  contagion  had  settled. 
Moreover  the  war,  for  the  first  time,  had  swept 
them  into  the  national  enthusiasm  and  in  vital 
touch  with  the  nation's  concern. 

Elsie  and  Rosie  Silverstein,  Mrs.  Rosalsky  and 
all  the  female  Rosalskies  had  been  co-workers  in 
Red  Cross  and  Liberty  Bond  drives,  with  the 
Morgans,  the  Rockefellers  and  the  various  hy- 
phenated Smiths  and  Smyths;  and  the  little  Ikies 
and  Pietros,  the  Jackies  and  Jankos  had  button- 
holed the  population  into  buying  war  stamps, 
just  like  the  sons  of  the  mighty,  and  with  the  same 
zeal  and  perhaps  more  success. 

Moreover,  the  East  Side  swelled  with  pride  over 
its  khaki-clad  boys.  It  was  an  honour  to  lose  a 
son  upon  the  battlefield  and  have  him  enrolled 
among  the  heroes  whose  names  did  not  end  in  sky 
or  contained  so  many  consonants. 

I  met  none  who  tried  to  escape  the  Americaniza- 
tion which  came  through  a  common  sacrifice,  and 
none  who  did  not  feel  proud  of  their  share  in  the 
misfortunes  of  war. 

They  all  shared  in  the  lavish  welcome  which 
Fifth  Avenue  gave  to  their  sons  who  returned 
from  the  battlefield,  and  none  of  them  can  easily 
forget  those  days  when  New  York,  this  catch 
basin  of  the  world's  refuse,  this  bargain  counter 
of  the  remnants  of  humanity,  became  like  the 
city  of  God,  one  people  with  a  common  devotion 
and  a  common  gratitude. 


16        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Fifth  Avenue  became  the  people's  avenue,  not 
only  down  there  where  Broadway  has  spilled  itself 
all  over  it,  with  its  lofts  and  shops  and  lunch 
counters;  even  beyond  Central  Park,  where  there 
are  bronze  gates  such  as  Giotto  might  have 
claimed  for  his  tower,  and  palaces  which  might 
grace  the  Grand  Canal,  and  where  sunlight  filters 
through  windows  fit  for  Notre  Dame.  There 
were  miles  of  grand  stands,  and  the  palaces  looked 
as  if  they  were  emerging  out  of  packing  cases. 

The  boys,  the  dear  boys  were  coming  home,  and 
the  sirens  from  the  boats  on  river  and  bay,  and 
guns  from  the  islands  and  whistles  from  the  fac- 
tories gave  the  noisy  welcome,  as  the  transports 
slipped  into  the  harbour.  The  people  of  New  York, 
the  American  people,  were  standing  together  shoul- 
der to  shoulder,  through  weary  hours,  along  Fifth 
Avenue.  Though  they  were  aliens  to  each  other's 
speech  and  faith,  they  had  all  made  a  common 
sacrifice,  and  this  was  its  lasting  fragrance  which 
they  came  to  breathe  into  their  souls.  Fifth  Ave- 
nue was  gorgeously  glorious,  a  street  made  for 
pomp  and  ceremony.  A  mighty  arch  spanned  it 
at  one  end,  a  dazzling  crystal  curtain  made  it 
luminous  at  the  other;  flagstaff s  were  joined  to 
each  other  by  wreaths  of  hopeful  green;  while 
Roman  lances,  spikes,  breastplates,  helmets  and 
hovering  war  eagles  turned  the  space  before  the 
Library  into  a  Champs  de  Mars. 

There  was  no  temple  for  peace,  for  Fifth  Ave- 


THE  IMMIGRANT'S  FAITH  17 

nue  knew  better  than  the  East  Side  that  there  was 
no  peace.  In  the  swelHng  roar  of  its  welcome 
there  was  already  a  note  of  doubt,  which  it  did  not 
share  with  those  whose  sons  came  marching  back. 
East  Side,  Harlem  boys  mostly;  round-headed, 
square-headed,  hook-nosed,  fiat-faced,  tawny- 
skinned,  gray-eyed,  black-eyed,  the  despair  of  the 
prophets  of  evil,  who  cannot  conceive  of  a  nation 
of  many  blood  strains  and  faiths,  and  who  foretold 
a  doom  which  has  not  yet  come  upon  us. 

Roar  ye  Irish,  exult  ye  Hebrews,  shout  oh 
Italians,  delight  ye  Germans,  jubilate  oh  Slavs,  be 
mirthful  oh  Greeks!  Your  sons  have  been  rebap- 
tized  by  blood  and  tears  and  are  coming  back, 
Americans! 

That  is  what  I  felt  and  heard,  standing  there  in 
the  throng,  still  with  a  heavy  heart,  for  I,  too, 
knew  that  peace  had  not  yet  come — not  even  to 
America  in  America,  certainly  not  to  Europe. 

The  war  had  settled  nothing,  it  had  unsettled 
many  things;  the  darker  days  were  ahead.  The 
romance  of  the  war  over,  the  dull  aches  of  reality 
were  left,  the  embraces  of  those  who  felt  like  one 
in  their  war  tasks,  had  already  loosened,  and  when 
Katy  Finkelstein  and  Iky  Kohn  and  Tony  Vizitaly 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pucinelli,  who  were  in  mourn- 
ing, had  returned  home  from  welcoming  their  own, 
they  were  again  aliens  who  had  to  be  American- 
ized. 


II 

THE  RAINBOW  FLAT 

A  STORM  cloud  hovered  over  our  rain- 
bow flat,  and  my  wife  put  her  finger 
warningly  to  her  Hps.  Instinctively 
obeying  her  gesture  I  lowered  my  voice,  then 
noticed  that  Mrs.  Pucinelli,  the  janitress,  had 
stopped  her  vigorous  sweeping,  and  was  frankly 
listening. 

Why  should  one  want  to  be  janitress  in  a 
tenement  house,  if  not  for  the  joy  of  "  listening 
in  "  on  the  melodramas  of  four  floors  and  thirty- 
six  scenes,  the  number  of  families  Mrs.  Pucinelli 
was  serving  or  rather,  mastering?  She  sus- 
pected something  was  wrong  with  us,  for  we  had 
rather  strange-looking  callers  for  people  who 
lived  in  a  tenement  house  on  the  East  Side; 
callers  who  came  in  limousines,  and  more  inter- 
esting people  who  came  without.  She  even 
half  suspected  that  we  were  not  husband  and 
wife,  because  we  never  had  quarrelled  as  far  as 
she  knew,  and  what  she  did  not  know,  had  never 
happened. 

To-day  the  callers  had  been   especially  nu- 
merous, and  my  work  nerve-wearing  and  irk- 

i8 


THE  EAmBOW  FLAT  19 

some,  and  being  about  to  give  way  to  my 
temper  there  might  have  been  a  quarrel,  had  not 
my  wife  raised  her  warning  linger  just  in  time. 

I  had  been  "Americanizing  "  New  York  City 
all  day  long,  and  an  evening  engagement 
awaited  me.  At  nine  o'clock  that  morning  I 
had  had  an  appointment  at  the  State  Headquarters 
of  Americanization,  in  one  of  the  most  expen- 
sive hotels  in  the  city.  These  I  found  to  be  a 
suite  of  rooms  fit  for  a  king,  with  a  charming 
young  lady  in  attendance,  who  explained  an 
elaborate  and  expensive  scheme  of  lectures  on 
the  ethnic  and  historic  background  of  the  immi- 
grants, to  be  delivered  to  the  public  school 
teachers  of  the  state.  I  gave  my  blessing  to  the 
scheme,  and  after  promising  to  aid  and  abet  it, 
rushed  to  the  subway,  for  at  ten  o'clock  I  was 
expecting  a  call  from  a  lady  who  had  heard 
from  a  friend  of  a  friend  of  mine,  that  I  was 
interested  in  immigration.  She  was  waiting  for 
me  when  I  arrived,  breathless,  at  the  flat. 

It  is  needless  to  describe  her.  She  lectured 
on  Americanization  to  women's  clubs.  She 
wanted  me  to  give  her  first-hand  information 
about  the  Bolsheviki,  who  were  supposedly- 
lurking  in  every  corner  of  the  East  Side.  She 
gave  me  a  sample  of  her  lecture  before  the 
women's  clubs.  It  was  a  tearful  lament,  and 
whatever  she  got  for  it,  she  was  overpaid.  I 
cured  her  of  her  hysteria  by  taking  her  into  a 


20        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

number  of  homes,  walking  her  through  half  a 
dozen  closely  packed  blocks,  where  she  watched 
the  children  at  play,  and  giving  her  a  glimpse 
into  the  busy  shops.  She  had  never  before  seen 
so  much  decency  under  such  great  handicaps,  so 
much  cleanliness  where  keeping  clean  was  a 
struggle,  or  so  much  honest  sweat  for  daily 
bread. 

I  explained  to  her  that  Americanization  was 
not  something  that  could  be  handed  down  in 
lessons  and  lectures,  or  in  correspondence 
courses,  but  something  to  be  experienced.  And 
to  the  degree  that  our  neighbourhood  saw  jus- 
tice done,  where  in  the  Old  World  it  saw  in- 
justice, to  that  degree  the  immigrant  would  turn 
from  the  Old  World  to  the  New. 

"Above  all  else,  if  they  come  to  know  Ameri- 
cans who  arc  Americans,  not  merely  because  they 
were  born  in  this  country,  but  because  they  have 
inherited  its  spiritual  culture,  then  will  they  love 
it  and  serve  it  as  it  deserves."  My  lady  left  me 
with  a  new  vision  I  believe,  with  a  new  lecture  I 
know;  a  lecture  with  less  sob  and  more  hope. 

At  noon  I  took  luncheon  down-town  with  a 
man  who  was  eager  to  turn  the  wealth  of  in- 
dustrial magnates  into  Americanization  chan- 
nels. I  ate  his  luncheon,  which  was  very  good, 
and  listened  to  his  scheme,  which  was  very 
poor.  He  had  no  interest  in  adult  education,  a 
much  neglected  field  in  the  United  States;  he 


THE  KAINBOW  FLAT  21 

wanted  a  patriotic  propaganda,  the  subsidizing 
of  newspapers,  posters  and  slogans  for  foreign- 
speaking  peoples.  His  object  was  to  keep  for- 
eign-born workmen  from  becoming  restless.  I 
have  too  much  respect  for  the  millions  of  mil- 
lionaires to  be  a  party  in  wasting  them  that 
way. 

At  three  o'clock  a  man  called  whom  I  would 
have  kicked  out  of  the  house,  were  I  not  a  pro- 
fessor of  Applied  Christianity,  and  had  he  not 
been  at  least  twice  my  size.  He  asked  me  to 
help  him  raise  ten  million  dollars  for  Christian 
Americanization,  on  a  percentage,  and  all  he 
wanted  was  my  endorsement.  I  sent  him  away 
with  a  very  poor  opinion  of  me,  for  I  told  him  I 
believed  that  a  Roman  Catholic  can  be  a  per- 
fectly good  American,  as  can  also  a  Jew,  and  the 
better  Jew,  the  better  American.  I  even  in- 
cluded Mormons,  Mohammedans  and  Agnostics 
among  those  who  might  work  out  their  national 
salvation  without  the  aid  of  his  costly  and  re- 
ligious scheme. 

His  desire  to  convert  them  was  certainly 
laudable,  and  if  he  could  convert  the  population 
of  the  whole  United  States  to  the  religion  of 
Jesus,  I  wish  he  might  get  his  millions;  it  would 
be  cheap  at  that;  but  the  attempt  to  proselytize 
under  the  cover  of  patriotism  did  not  appeal  to 
me. 

No  wonder  I  was  in  ill  humour  and  at  the 


22        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

verge  of  a  quarrel  with  my  wife.  For  there  was 
the  evening  engagement  ahead,  an  American- 
ization dinner  at  that,  and  my  wife  insisted  that 
I  must  wear  full  dress.  There  it  lay  in  all  its 
unshapely  ugliness:  the  stiff-bosomed  shirt,  the 
razor-edged  collar  and  the  tie,  which  I  never 
could  manipulate. 

My  wife,  of  course,  was  wearing  her  dinner 
gown,  which  she  had  abbreviated  at  both  ends, 
to  conform  to  what  a  dinner  gown  in  New  York 
should  lack.  I  am  a  Puritan,  and  I  had  mis- 
givings. 

Pacing  up  and  down,  having  to  restrain  my 
revolt  on  account  of  Mrs.  Pucinelli,  I  contem- 
plated the  festooned  wash-lines  which  zigzagged 
through  the  back  yards;  for  there  was  nothing 
else  to  contemplate,  except  the  pathetic-looking 
alley  cats.  Then  I  marched  to  the  front  win- 
dows and  looked  out  upon  the  block,  full  of 
children — Italian,  Irish,  Jewish  children — and  I 
listened  to  the  clatter  of  their  voices  which 
drowned  the  roar  of  the  Third  Avenue  Ele- 
vated, and  the  rush  of  the  Lexington  Avenue 
subway,  and  the  rumble  of  the  street  traffic. 
Their  voices  were  pitched  to  the  American  key, 
high  and  shrill,  and  they  spoke  American  as 
"  she  is  spoke  "  on  the  East  Side,  and  they 
danced  American  dances,  though  it  was  an 
Italian  hurdy-gurdy  that  played  the  tunes. 

Some  of  the  boys  played  marbles,  which  is  an 


THE  EAINBOW  FLAT  23 

American  game,  and  others  played  ball  in  defi- 
ance of  windows,  the  police  and  the  passer-by. 
Still  others  had  half  the  block  chalked  off  into 
squares,  and  were  kicking  an  old  tin  can  across 
the  lines,  that  game  being  the  oldest  and  poor- 
est relative  of  golf,  which,  by  adoption,  is  more 
or  less  American.  The  girls  skipped  ropes  and 
I  listened  to  songs,  born  not  in  Italy  or  Odessa, 
but  in  "  good  old  New  York."  This  is  what 
they  sang: 

"  My  mother,  your  mother,  lives  across  the  way, 
Three-sixteen  East  Broadway, 
Every  night  they  have  a  fight 
And  this  is  what  they  say : "  &c. 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  am  sick. 
Get  the  doctor  quick,  quick,  quick! 
Mother,  mother,  will  I  die? 
Yes,  my  child,  by-and-by." 

No  Jewish  girl  in  the  pale  of  Russia,  no  Italian 
girl  in  Naples,  no  Irish  girl  in  Cork  ever  cared 
or  dared  jump  so  high  or  so  often  (if  she  jumped 
at  all),  as  these  children  of  the  East  Side.  At 
least  I  have  never  seen  it  done,  not  even  in  this 
year  Ninteen  Twenty-One,  when,  on  just  such 
spring  days  as  that,  I  went  about  the  streets  of 
foreign  cities. 

Watching  those  immigrant  children  I  re- 
flected upon  what  I  had  done  for  weeks  and 


24        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

months;  the  little  bits  of  Americanizing  machin- 
ery which  I  had  tried  to  inspect  and  lubricate, 
or  where  defective,  stop  from  running;  and  then 
I  rebelled,  thinking  of  the  misspent  day,  the 
yawning  chasm  of  a  long  evening  to  be  given  to 
eating,  and  listening  to  after-dinner  speeches, 
one  of  them  being  mine !  I  thought  of  the  fu- 
tility of  it  all  as  the  wind  and  the  dust  and  the 
traffic  were  Americanizing  these  aliens,  with 
nothing  to  withstand  it  in  spite  of  the  Yiddish 
signs  over  the  shops  and  stores,  in  spite  of  the 
Italian  hurdy-gurdy  and  the  hokey-pokey  man, 
of  like  extraction.  Stale  newspapers  a  minute 
old  swished  about  by  the  wind,  the  chief  refuse 
of  our  cities,  were  Americanizing,  and  those 
printed  in  foreign  script,  sometimes  better  than 
our  best  and  rarely  worse  than  our  worst,  were 
Americanizing;  for  though  they  brought  the 
news  from  the  homeland,  they  were,  after  all, 
but  a  paper  link,  which  the  new  generation  tore 
without  conscious  effort. 

The  settlement  around  the  corner  was  Ameri- 
canizing; the  public  schools  were  Americaniz- 
ing, crowded  as  they  were,  presided  over  by 
some  sprig  of  a  girl,  still  undrained  of  her  enthu- 
siasm, always  the  high-priestess  of  the  Ameri- 
can Spirit,  and  this  since  the  days  of  Myra, 
Kelly,  whose  love  Americanized  the  alien,  when 
Americanism  had  not  yet  been  measured  by  the 
yard-stick,  and  enforced  oaths  of  allegiance  had. 


THE  RAINBOW  FLAT  25 

not  yet  aroused  doubt  in  the  stranger's  mind, 
where  little  or  none  existed  before. 

No  youngster  born  in  New  York  City,  or  in 
any  city  or  town  or  hamlet  in  America  (unless 
it  be  on  some  agricultural  island  or  in  the  back- 
woods) can  escape  the  mighty  pressure  of  pa- 
triotic impulses  which  sweep  and  permeate  the 
country,  and  which  manifest  themselves  in 
churches  of  whatever  faith,  in  the  schools,  the 
settlements,  the  libraries  and  in  the  newspapers. 
If  there  is  hesitancy  in  accepting  the  American 
creed,  it  is  only  here  and  there,  and  that  only 
since  patriotism  has  been  perverted  and  made 
the  excuse  for  exploitation,  and  since  Ameri- 
canization has  become  a  compulsion  by  machin- 
ery, rather  than  an  impulsion  by  the  spirit. 

My  wife  roused  me  out  of  my  contemplative 
mood,  which  served  as  a  sort  of  preparation  for 
my  after-dinner  speech,  by  telling  me  that  it  was 
time  to  go.  She  never  looked  more  lovely  than 
she  did  that  night,  in  spite  of  her  gown's  few 
inches  more  or  less,  or  because  of  them.  But 
I  was  Jove  and  had  to  thunder,  and  I  reminded 
her  of  her  Puritan  ancestors,  and  how  she  was 
aiding  and  abetting  society  in  its  determination 
to  go  to  the  devil.  I  declared  that  I  would  not 
tolerate  it;  moreover,  I  wouldn't  put  on  my 
dress  suit,  especially  as  there  was  no  time  left, 
and  bravely  I  concluded:  "A  thousand  horses 
shall  not  drag  me  to  that  dinner!"     Pointing 


26        OLD  TEAILS  AND  I^W  BOEDERS 

to  her  satin  slippered  feet  she  replied:  "  Not  a 
thousand  horses,  my  dear,  that  would  be  too  ex- 
pensive, or  the  subway,  for  I  couldn't  risk  my 
slippers;  but  a  taxi,  and  you'd  better  hurry  and 
order  one  for  it  is  half-past  seven,  and  we  are 
sure  to  be  late  as  it  is." 

So  it  happened  that  I  went  to  that  Ameri- 
canization dinner  in  a  taxi,  wearing  my  business 
suit,  and  watching  the  meter  measuring  off 
dollars  from  my  bank  account,  which  is  most 
often  an  overdraft. 


Ill 

A  NARROW  ESCAPE 

BEING  late  for  dinner  in  New  York  City  is 
nothing  unusual,  and  no  attention  was 
paid  us  by  the  guests,  who  had  eaten 
through  a  part  of  the  elaborate  menu.  No  one 
seemed  to  take  it  amiss  that  I  appeared  at  the  great 
feast  without  my  "  wedding  garments,"  though  I 
felt  conspicuous  among  those  wide  expanses  of 
white  shirt-bosoms.  It  salved  my  Puritan  con- 
science, however,  to  find  that  my  wife  was  quite 
modestly  gowned  in  contrast  to  some  of  the  ana- 
tomical displays  of  the  other  women. 

My  neighbour  on  the  right  was  a  charming 
lady,  with  an  American  name  which  was  saved 
from  being  common  by  hyphenation.  There 
was  a  certain  voluptuousness  about  her  that 
spoke  of  warmer  blood  than  that  of  New  Eng- 
land; yet  I  dared  not  study  her  closely;  for 
hers  were  searching  eyes  with  strange  depths, 
and  my  salad  remained  untasted;  for  who  could 
eat  salad  with  a  Greek  goddess  watching  him? 

Turning  my  attention  to  the  lady  on  my  left,  I 
found  her  a  very  comfortable,  virile  type,  and  I 
was  able  to  do  full  justice  to  the  next  course,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  she,  too,  looked  at  me. 

87 


28        OLD  TEAIL8  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

When  our  eyes  met,  she  smiled,  and  I  ventured 
to  tell  her  that  her  name  and  her  skull  and  eyes  did 
not  match.  "  Your  name  is  Irish,  your  forehead 
is  Slavic,  and  your  hair  is — blond." 

"  Red,  you  mean,"  she  corrected,  laughing  at 
my  attempt  to  be  polite.  *'  Brick  red — Irish  red. 
One  of  my  forefathers  was  Irish,"  she  continued, 
"  and  he  married  a  Polish  Countess.  That  was 
before  the  Revolutionary  War." 

"  When  an  Irishman  marries  a  Polish  woman, 
there  is  sure  to  be  war,"  the  Greek  goddess  inter- 
posed; "isn't  that  so.  Professor?"  Then  she 
asked  me  to  look  at  her,  and  tell  her  whether  her 
name  and  face  matched.  They  did  not;  but  I 
hardly  felt  at  liberty  to  reveal  the  crossed  strains 
in  her  racial  ancestry,  at  that  point  in  the  world's 
history. 

"  I  am  mostly  French,"  she  said,  after  I  de- 
clined to  commit  myself,  and  then  added  hesitat- 
ingly, "  and  a  little  German." 

French  ancestors,  I  find,  have  marvellously  mul- 
tiplied during  the  war,  and  German  blood  has  cor- 
respondingly decreased,  and  I  felt  sure  that  the 
lady  at  my  right  was  as  Teutonic  as  Brunhilde. 

Amid  the  subdued  buzz  of  conversation  and  the 
pianissimo  of  well-bred  diners,  I  was  kept  busy  by 
my  two  neighbours,  guessing  at  the  ancestry  of  the 
guests,  assembled  in  the  interests  of  Americaniz- 
ing un-Americanized  America. 
Looking  over  their  names,  to  aid  me  in  my  some- 


A  NAEROW  ESCAPE  29 

what  hazardous  game,  I  saw  that  not  more  than 
ten  per  cent,  of  us  were  Americans  of  New  Eng- 
land strain.  The  majority  were  Scotch-Irish  in 
ancestry,  a  fine,  fibrous,  and  enduring  element  of 
our  physical,  spiritual,  and  mental  make-up. 
There  were  more  Slavs  than  Germans,  which  was 
understandable  in  that  rather  abnormal  period;  a 
few  Italians,  and  some  Greeks  and  Armenians, 
who,  in  one  generation,  had  risen  from  the  steer- 
age to  the  American  peerage,  who  were  wearing 
evening  clothes  easily  and  knew  which  fork  to  use. 
There  was  a  goodly  number  of  Jews,  broad- 
skulled,  Tartar,  Semitic  types,  and  others  more 
Teutonic  than  Jewish ;  while  there  were  not  a  few 
whose  Semitism  had  been  bred  out  of  their  sys- 
tems. 

I  enjoyed  studying  them,  and  looking  at  them, 
for  this  was  the  face  of  America  which  I  loved, 
and  in  which  I  had  faith. 

At  last  the  waiters  cleared  the  tables,  the  chair- 
man cleared  his  throat,  and  taking  advantage  of 
the  fact  that  he  held  the  gavel,  made  a  speech  of 
great  length,  in  which  he  anticipated  most  of  the 
speakers;  for  he  voiced  America's  doubt  that  it 
was  a  nation ;  that  the  war  had  revealed  a  danger- 
ous hyphenation ;  that  there  were  foreign  agitators 
who  were  sowing  seeds  of  discontent;  that  the 
government  was  in  danger  of  being  overthrown; 
that  we  had  been  too  easy-going,  and  that  the  time 
had  come  for  action.     Action,  according  to  him, 


30        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

consisted  in  the  elimination  of  the  foreign  press, 
the  teaching  of  EngHsh  to  foreigners,  making 
them  acquainted  with  our  form  of  government, 
compelHng  them  to  learn  the  Constitution,  and 
watching  over  our  public  schools  so  that  they  do 
not  fall  into  the  hands  of  disloyal  persons. 

Speaker  after  speaker  followed,  ringing  the 
changes  on  the  subject  of  the  evening.  Those 
who  knew  the  least  about  immigrants  expressed 
the  most  fear,  and  those  who  had  been  in  actual 
contact  with  them  and  watched  over  them  and 
worked  for  them,  were  the  most  optimistic;  yet 
their  words  received  the  least  credence  and  ap- 
plause. Among  those  who  spoke  were  the  super- 
patriots  who  wanted  the  "  hurrah  "  feeling  kept 
alive,  and  that  always  demands  fears  and  stress; 
others  again  were  left  with  an  accumulated  stock 
of  war  suspicion  and  hate,  and  that  had  to  be 
worked  off;  a  few,  who  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  a 
common  impulse  and  effort,  wanted  something  to 
do,  now  that  the  Red  Cross  had  its  millions,  and 
the  Belgian  and  French  children  were  provided 
for.  Many  had  moribund  institutions  on  their 
hands,  and  Americanization  was  a  good  basis  for 
appeal  for  funds ;  while  a  very  few  who,  neverthe- 
less, were  real  patriots,  had  the  good  sense  to  real- 
ize that  the  process  of  Americanization  was  going 
on  as  fast,  perhaps,  as  was  advisable;  certainly 
as  fast  as  possible,  and  that  what  was  needed 
was  a  higher  type  of  Americanism  on  the  part  of 


A  NAEEOW  ESCAPE  31 

Americans;  a  higher  regard  for  law  and  order 
when  law  and  order  interfere  with  their  personal 
pleasure  and  profit;  a  deeper  appreciation  of  their 
spiritual  inheritance;  greater  reliance  upon  justice 
and  truth,  good-will  and  neighbourliness;  and  less 
upon  pressure  of  law,  which  at  best  cannot  compel 
loyalty. 

So  one  speaker  followed  another  ad  naiiscum, 
till  my  turn  came.  Ardent  believer  that  I  am  in 
the  fact  that  America  is  a  nation,  I  challenged 
the  previous  speakers  to  point  out  here,  any  real 
cleavage  of  political  import,  such  as  exists  in 
nearly  every  country  in  Europe,  or  to  draw  the 
geographic  lines  where  patriotism  cooled,  or  the 
ethnic  lines  where  we  had  not  been  wedded  and 
welded  into  a  common  purpose  during  the  war. 
And  I  proudly  declared  the  United  States  the 
safest  national  unit  in  the  world,  and  again  I  chal- 
lenged any  one  to  name  any  single  country  in 
which  there  had  been  less  treason  or  more  loyalty 
than  in  America.  Social  unrest  has  nothing  to  do 
witli  Americanization,  and  it  could  not  be  quieted, 
even  if  every  foreigner  knew  English  perfectly, 
and  had  learned  the  Constitution  by  heart. 

Everywhere  the  working  classes  have  grown 
suspicious  of  the  virtue  of  patriotism  as  ex- 
pounded by  the  privileged  classes,  just  as  they 
have  grown  suspicious  of  religion.  I  ventured  to 
say  that  suspicion  was  more  strongly  expressed  in 
France,  in  Germany  and  in  England  than  here  in 


32        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

the  United  States,  and  that  in  Europe  it  found 
organic  expression,  which  could  not  be  repressed 
there  as  here,  because  there  it  is  represented  in 
parHaments,  even  in  government  itself.  More- 
over, the  most  radical  organization  in  the  United 
States  is  of  American  origin,  the  majority  of  the 
membership  of  the  I.  W.  W.  being  native  born. 
The  worst  strikes  America  has  experienced  were 
in  the  highly  organized  crafts,  which  are  safely 
American. 

If  discontent  exists  among  the  immigrants,  it 
is  not  because  they  are  foreigners,  who  are  still 
smarting  under  the  wrongs  from  which  they  have 
escaped,  as  is  usually  supposed  to  be  the  case,  but 
because  they  are  the  bottom  layer  of  our  industrial 
order,  and  it  is  there  that  the  pressure  is  heaviest 
and  the  discontent  greatest,  the  world  over.  Law- 
lessness is  not  characteristic  of  foreigners;  as  a 
rule  they  come  here  respecting  and  fearing  the 
law.  If  they  disregard  it  and  seek  by  force  to 
gain  their  ends,  they  have  good  American  prec- 
edent. 

Nothing  can  bring  us  industrial  peace  but  eco- 
nomic justice,  and  we  shall  never  get  that  by  be- 
fuddling our  brains  with  phrases,  and  labelling  as 
un-American  everything  which  is  not  silent  under 
Injustice.  "  The  fact  is,"  I  concluded,  "  that  one 
of  the  supposed  virtues  of  our  Democracy  is  the 
spirit  of  self-assertion,  the  willingness  to  fight  for 
one's  rights." 


A  NAREOW  ESCAPE  33 

My  wife  who  sat  opposite  me,  had  for  some 
time  been  giving  me  the  S.  O.  S.  signal,  for  she 
sensed  the  situation ;  but  I  disregarded  it,  and  kept 
on  to  the  end  of  my  time. 

There  was  but  feeble  applause  when  I  sat  down, 
after  which  the  toastmaster  called  on  a  celebrated 
man  of  generous  avoirdupois  and  a  large  collec- 
tion of  stories,  who  "  sat  down  "  upon  me  good 
and  heavily.  He  appealed  to  the  Constitution,  to 
the  flag,  he  spoke  of  one  hundred  per  cent.  Ameri- 
cans, and  resented  (as  perhaps  he  had  a  right  to) 
my  criticism  of  America.  After  all,  he  said,  I  was 
foreign  born  and  did  not,  and  could  not,  know 
what  it  meant  to  be  an  American. 

All  things  have  an  end,  even  banquets;  there 
was  a  rush  for  the  cloak-rooms,  and  in  the 
crowded  hall,  where  I  was  lost  among  long 
coats  and  tall  hats,  I  heard  one  woman  say  to 
another  in  an  awestruck  voice:  "Why,  that  man 
is  a  socialist!"  And  her  companion  replied: 
"Yes,  but  he  is  an  anarchist  also!  " 

Two  very  prosperous  looking  men  were  dis- 
cussing the  evening,  and  one  said  to  another: 
"  That  little  man  is  dangerous !  He  ought  to  be 
hung !  "  He  was  an  ardent  believer  in  national 
salvation  by  way  of  the  hardware  store. 

The  evening  would  have  been  utterly  ruined, 
had  I  not  pushed  close  to  the  two  ladies  who  had 
to  endure  me  as  their  neighbour  during  the  ban- 
quet   I  was  about  to  bid  them  good-night,  when 


34        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

I  heard  Brunhilde  say  to  the  lady  whose  ancestors 
were  responsible  for  the  Revolutionary  War: 
"  Isn't  he  a  dear  ?  I  should  have  liked  to  hug 
him!" 

That  night  I  did  not  sleep.  A  many-coursed 
dinner  followed  by  speeches  makes  a  poor  seda- 
tive, especially  when  one's  own  speech  runs  coun- 
ter to  the  popular  current.  There  were  long  hours 
in  which  to  search  my  heart,  and  I  tried  very 
hard  to  discover  any  spot  in  it  unfaithful  to  my 
country.  I  tried,  too,  and  without  success,  to  find 
wherein  the  truths  I  now  spoke,  differed  from 
those  I  spoke  when  I  was  received  with  appre- 
ciation and  enthusiasm. 

I  heard  the  low  rumble  of  the  city  grow  Into 
mild  thunder,  the  milkman  made  his  rounds,  and 
the  newsboy  had  deposited  the  morning  paper. 
When  I  saw  the  glaring  headlines  telling  of  raids 
of  radicals,  plots  to  overthrow  the  government, 
and  columns  of  wild  tales  of  projected  terror,  I 
suddenly  realized  that  the  times,  and  not  I,  had 
changed. 


IV 

THE  LURE  OF  EUROPE 

FOR  the  first  time  in  thirty  years  I  realized 
that  I  was  still  a  foreigner,  although  I 
,  knew  I  was  an  American,  with  my  love 
and  loyalty  undiminished.  It  was  a  curious 
feeling,  almost  a  physical  hurt,  a  sense  of  being 
out  of  place  among  these  people,  who  believed 
that  nativity  means  natural  loyalty  and  superi- 
ority, and  that  being  foreign-born  means  indif- 
ference and  inferiority. 

I  felt  it  every  time  I  had  to  suffer  through 
the  discussions  on  Americanization,  a  subject 
which  one  could  not  escape;  for  it  was  never 
mal  apropos,  even  in  funeral  sermons.  Although 
I  did  not  flatter  myself  that  the  speakers 
thought  of  me,  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  point- 
ing in  my  direction  when  they  spoke  of  an 
"  unassimilated  American,"  "  the  riffraff  of 
Europe,"  and  the  inferior  blood  strains  which 
will  make  us  a  mongrel  people,  and  lead  to  the 
ruin  of  our  liberties  as  well  as  our  physical  well- 
being. 

I  was  made  conscious  of  it  every  time  I  faced 
an  American  audience;  something  had  come  be- 

35 


36        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

tween  us,  and  we  were  no  longer  en  rapport. 
They  wanted  food  for  their  fears  and  I  wanted 
them  to  have  the  courage  to  face  facts.  I  knew 
that  the  national  personality  which  we  call  the 
United  States  was  fairly  sound — its  ills  not  of 
body,  but  of  mind  and  spirit.  It  had  not  at- 
tained that  fullness  of  being  which  comes  from 
right  relation  to  God,  or  to  those  individuals 
who  were  not  as  yet  like  it,  but  were  waiting  to 
be  reborn  by  the  power  of  the  national  spirit. 

For  this,  no  paper  schemes  would  avail;  no 
patriotic  organizations  with  their  secret  or  open 
persecutions,  no  compulsion  by  law,  which  only 
makes  for  premature  birth;  no  exaggeration  of 
the  national  ego,  no  purgatives  in  the  way  of 
wholesale  deportations,  no  sugar-coated  pills, 
coloured  red,  white  and  blue  and  fed  to  Chau- 
tauqua audiences;  none  of  these  would  avail. 
Only  a  realization  of  the  nation's  need  of  grow- 
ing in  the  direction  of  a  spiritual  personaUty, 
and  above  all  else,  a  belief  that  each  individual, 
regardless  of  racial  origin,  may  grow  the  same 
way,  given  the  chance. 

I  knew  that  we  shall  never  grow  in  that  di- 
rection till  we  stop,  talking  about  our  Nordic 
superiority  and  Aryan  leadership. 

However,  I  began  to  realize  that  I  could  not 
understand  the  problem  of  Americanization,  be- 
cause I  was  a  part  of  it;  that  I  was  prejudiced 
in  favour  of  the   foreign-born  by  my  natural 


THE  LUEE  OF  EUEOPE  37 

sympathy  with  them.  I  began  to  feel  the  need 
of  a  new  perspective,  and  Europe  came  into  my 
vision.  I  reaHzed  that  the  war  had  made  me  a 
"  landlubber  "  and  that  my  ship  was  stranded 
in  the  black  mud  of  the  corn-belt. 

Thirty-four  times  I  had  sailed,  and  each  re- 
turning had  strengthened  my  faith  in  the 
American  people,  as  I  shared  the  solemn,  pain- 
ful, yet  glorious  agony  of  being  born  out  of  the 
womb  of  the  steerage,  into  a  strange  new  world, 
and  at  the  same  time  experiencing  the  thrill  of 
coming  home. 

I  needed  the  tonic  of  the  unconfined  seas,  the 
quickening  of  vision  which  comes  from  new 
experiences;  but  the  sea  which  had  been 
wormed  through  by  the  menacing  submarine, 
and  the  sudden  graveyard  of  unsuspecting 
travellers,  had  lost  its  attractiveness;  while 
Europe  had  become  one  witli  Nineveh  and 
Tyre. 

I  did  not  care  to  see  the  Mother  Continent 
which  I  knew  in  her  voluptuous  strength,  now 
haggard  and  wan,  while  her  hungry  children 
vainly  seek  nourishment  at  her  leathern  breast. 
Why  should  I  care  to  see  Paris  again,  after  see- 
ing her  in  1900,  the  World's  Fair  year,  unmad- 
dened  and  unexhausted  by  war,  and  but  for  the 
touch  of  revanche  in  her  brain,  as  sane  as  that 
international  pleasure  market  ever  could  be? 

They  said  that  there  was  disorder,  and  dirt, 


38       OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

and  dismay  in  Berlin.  It  was  impossible  to  be- 
lieve! For  I  saw  her  two  millions,  marching 
over  the  spotless  pavements  to  the  tune  of  the 
Grenadier  March;  while  the  guardians  of  the 
city's  peace  and  order  wiped  the  dust  from  the 
nostrils  of  the  HohenzoUerns,  standing  in 
bronze  and  marble  in  that  insolent  Sicges-Alle. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  go  again  to  Vienna, 
whose  honey  of  music  and  song  I  have  tasted 
SO  many  times,  and  whose  coffee  and  crisp  rolls 
are  the  acme  of  my  epicurean  memories?  She 
was  my  first  love  among  the  cities,  and  I  want 
to  remember  her  dancing  to  the  "  Blue  Danube 
Waltz,"  a  ravishing  German,  Slavic,  Semitic, 
Magyar  beauty,  living  for  unrestrained  pleas- 
ure. Why  should  I  want  to  see  my  young  love 
wrinkled,  and  old,  and  homeless,  begging  for 
bread? 

I  did  not  care  to  see  dismembered  empires 
any  more  than  I  cared  to  see  amputated  legs 
and  arms;  and  the  new  self-determined,  undeter- 
mined kingdoms  were  no  doubt  as  unattractive 
as  babies  born  before  their  time,  and  their  future 
as  precarious.  I  had  no  desire  to  visit  war 
zones  and  ruined  cathedrals,  lest  my  respect  for 
the  human  race  be  entirely  destroyed. 

Who  would  care  to  see  Budapest  after  the 
Red  and  White  Terrors  have  ravished  her,  and 
Latin  mongrels  have  stolen  what  the  mob  left 
undamaged?     Humbled  and  defeated  Magyars 


THE  LUKE  OF  EUEOPE  89 

must  be  as  sorry  a  sight  as  Samson  with  gouged 
eyes,  treading  the  mill. 

I  wanted  to  remember  Petrograd  with  her 
long  streets  and  broad  squares  up  to  the  knees 
in  freshly  fallen  snow,  the  frozen  fog  like  a 
gauze  curtain,  through  which  one  swathed 
Ischvodjik  after  another  drove  his  troyka  madly. 
I  wanted  to  hear  always  the  laughter  of  the  gay 
women,  their  blood  a-tingle  from  the  bracing 
cold;  and  of  the  solemn,  merry  gentlemen,  their 
stomachs  pouchy  from  the  abundant  food.  Even 
then  there  were  enough  starving  people,  their 
half-naked  bodies  exposed  to  the  biting  winds; 
but  they  had  the  decency  to  be  humble  and  ask 
God's  blessing  upon  you,  even  if  you  gave  them 
no  kopeks.  Petrograd's  poor  were  mostly  saints, 
who  knew  no  envy,  and  were  content  with  the 
riches  of  heaven. 

Moscow,  now  the  Red  Oueen,  I  knew  as  the 
Holy  City,  the  bells  from  a  thousand  steeples 
bellowing  metallic  sounds,  so  that  the  air  be- 
came as  hard  as  steel  and  as  vibrant  as  a  watch 
spring.  Who  would  care  to  see  her  if  he  had 
seen  her  on  an  Easter  eve  and  an  Easter  morn- 
ing, after  the  suspended,  holy  hush,  lasting 
through  a  long,  and  lean,  and  penitent  Lent? 
A  dark  night  of  waiting,  the  throng  around  the 
Kremlin  so  dense  that  it  moved  like  a  huge  crea- 
ture pregnant  from  joy.  Sacred  fire  burst 
through  cathedral  gates,  swung  open  to  a  loud 


40       OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Te  Deum,  and  like  a  myriad  fireflies,  candles 
burned,  and  swayed,  and  leaped.  There  fol- 
lowed among  the  multitude,  warm,  Christian 
embraces,  holy  and  undiscriminating  kisses,  and 
triumphant  rejoicings. 

"Christ  is  risen!"  And  jubilant  replies: 
"  Christ  is  risen  indeed!  "  After  the  long  fast, 
the  feasting;  weeks  of  suppressed  desire  burst- 
ing forth  in  a  mad  outbreak  of  eating,  drinking, 
and  embracing.  Drunk  they  were  to  the  glory 
.  of  the  risen  Christ,  dead  drunk  and  joyously 
drunk  for  "  Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to 
men." 

Who  would  care  to  see  Moscow  turned  Bol- 
shevik? No  holy  Easter,  heavy  from  the  odour 
of  burning  wax  candles,  the  frying  of  long-denied 
meats,  the  stupefying  fumes  of  alcohol,  the  chants 
of  the  priests,  and  the  maudlin  praises  of  the  tipsy 
multitudes. 

I  did  not  want  to  see  Central  Europe  torn, 
bleeding,  and  not  even  decently  bandaged,  being 
fed  milk  by  the  spoonful.  Yet  I  went,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  I  said  "  No"  a  thousand  times 
to  the  lurking  desire  and  to  the  felt  need.  And 
when  I  went  I  did  not  go  reluctantly;  for  I  was 
to  follow  the  victorious  trail  of  the  Quakers, 
who  went  in  the  wake  of  the  war  to  build  houses 
while  the  German  guns  were  still  menacing; 
who  went  into  the  beaten  enemy's  lines  as  a 
friend,  when  the  blockade  had  fastened  its  iron 


THE  LUEE  OF  EUEOPE  41 

fingers  on  the  throats  of  little  children;  who 
went  in  the  spirit  of  Jesus,  when  Cscsar  ruled 
in  the  embittered  hearts  of  mankind. 

I  wanted  to  follow  the  "  sowers  who  went 
forth  to  sow,"  I  wanted  to  search  the  furrows 
for  signs  of  the  new  life,  and  to  see  what  hope 
there  was  for  the  Old  World,  and  what  hope  for 
the  New;  for  they  are  more  closely  linked  than 
parliaments  allow  or  statesmen  believe.  I 
wanted  to  voice  that  hope  if  I  could  but  find  it. 
But  I  went  to  Europe,  mostly,  to  have  a  far- 
range  look  at  America. 


v: 

THE  NEW  STEERAGE 

MY  way  lay  across  the  ocean  and  "  there 
is  no  more  sea."  The  Apocalyptic 
vision  is  fulfilled  for  those  who  travel 
on  this  ship  and  in  the  first  cabin.  Forty- 
five  thousand  tons,  in  height  topping  the  Wool- 
worth  building,  in  splendour  rivalling  not  only 
Rome,  but  making  any  Ritz-Carlton  look  cheap 
and  tawdry;  a  mile  of  glass-enclosed  deck,  and  the 
passengers  like  precious  orchids  in  a  conservatory. 
There  is  the  great  Tudor  Hall,  with  crackling  fire 
and  inviting  seats,  a  London  club  room,  American 
in  comforts  and  luxuries,  a  gymnasium  and  swim- 
ming pool  and  a  dining-room  amidship,  quietly, 
elegantly  unobtrusive,  and  a  symphony  orchestra. 
Caesar's  favourite  palace  would  have  looked  mean 
to  him  in  comparison  had  he  crossed  the  ocean  on 
this  ship  in  February,  1921. 

There  is  nothing  more  than  a  seventh  heaven 
promised  to  the  saints;  but  there  is  more  than  a 
first  cabin,  for  the  rich — a  super-cabin  and  private 
decks.  If  our  steak  was  thick,  theirs  must  be 
thicker,  and  if  our  lamb  was  tender,  theirs  must  be 
more  so ;  for  "  what  doth  it  profit  a  man  "  to  be 

4a 


THE  NEW  STEEEAQE  43 

ultra  rich,  unless  he  can  have  what  other  people 
cannot  have  ? 

I  did  not  envy  them;  for  I  was  rather  uncom- 
fortable surrounded  by  unwonted  luxury,  and  was 
reminded  of  my  steerage  days,  only  by  the  fact 
that  I  shared  my  inside  cabin  with  two  Lithu- 
anians, going  back  as  generals  to  their  newly 
made  Republic.  They,  too,  came  to  America  in 
the  steerage,  and  still  have  its  simple  manners. 
Though  they  had  handsome,  leather  bags,  the 
latest  and  best  in  clothing,  they  had  no  pajamas. 
They  slept  au  naturel  when  they  went  to  sleep, 
which  was  early  in  the  morning;  the  rest  of  the 
time  they  smoked  cigarettes,  practiced  wearing 
their  gorgeous  uniforms,  and  tried  to  act  as  gen- 
erals ought  to  act.  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  help 
them;  but  unfortunately,  I  have  not  often  asso- 
ciated with  generals.  They  are  the  first  fruit  from 
the  tree  of  self-determination  that  I  have  had  a 
chance  to  behold,  and  it  is  very  green  fruit,  which 
will  add  to  the  world's  political  dypepsia. 

My  generals  were  going  back  to  a  country  whose 
boundaries  were  fitted  by  tailors  in  France,  and 
are  as  new  and  as  ill-fitting  as  their  uniforms, 
made  in  the  same  country.  From  their  conver- 
sation it  seems  that  Lithuania  is  an  undefined 
territory,  surrounded  by — friction. 

One  thing  I  can  say  in  favour  of  my  generals — 
they  are  not  talking  about  conquering  the  world,  or 
about  the  mission  of  their  country  to  Lithuanize 


44        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

the  rest  of  mankind;  which  is,  as  I  have  discov- 
ered, a  favourite  topic  of  conversation  among 
the  generals  of  some  of  the  countries  which  owe 
their  existence  to  the  doctrine  of  self-determina- 
tion. 

Habit  is  stronger  than  the  lure  of  a  luxurious 
lounge,  and  though  it  was  but  the  second  day  out 
and  my  sea-legs  not  yet  established,  I  sought  the 
steerage.  On  that  ship  both  ends  never  meet  or 
see  each  other.  In  between,  travels  the  doomed 
second  class,  which  sees  the  striking  contrast  and 
feels  the  pressure  from  both  sides. 

I  found  my  way  to  the  steerage  unerringly. 
My  "  nose  knows  "  and — with  shame  I  confess  it 
— I  feel  at  home.  The  steerage  never  changes; 
either  in  location,  furnishings  or  tout  ensemble. 
It  lies  over  the  stirring  screws,  sleeps  to  the  stac- 
cato of  trembling  steel  railings  and  hawsers ;  nar- 
row, steep  and  slippery  stairs  lead  to  it ;  dishevelled 
women  emerge  with  the  unfailing  babies  in  their 
arms  (there  are  none  in  the  first  cabin)  ;  crowds 
of  burly,  surly  men,  ill-smelling  bunks,  uninviting 
wash-rooms  presided  over  by  unofficially  untidy 
stewards  and  stewardesses.  The  odour  of  scat- 
tered orange  peel,  tobacco,  garlic  and  disinfect- 
ants, meeting  but  not  blending;  no  lounges  or 
chairs  for  comfort,  and  a  babel  of  tongues.  "  As 
It  was  in  the  beginning  Is  now  and  ever  shall  be." 
My  friends  In  the  cabin  said:  "But  the  steerage 
thinks  differently."  They  were  singing,  and  in  their 


THE  NEW  STEERAGE  45 

singing  lies  their  hope  and  our  menace,  that  "  the 
last  shall  be  first  and  the  first  last."  They  are  new 
songs,  born  in  the  last  five  tragic  years,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  nor  fear,  but  passionate  certainty. 

Before  we  sailed  I  heard  those  songs  from  a 
throng  of  men  and  women  crowding  the  dock. 
They  were  seeing  their  countrymen  off,  those  who 
were  leaving  the  "  Sweet  Land  of  Liberty  "  for 
Soviet  Russia.  "  Blessed  are  the  poor,  for  theirs 
is  the  kingdom  of " — song.  Deep-throated, 
harshly  melodious,  and  melancholy,  were  the 
Slav's  strains;  for  though  they  sang  of  a  new 
"world,  in  which  nationalities  shall  blend  and  dis- 
appear, the  dominant  note  was  Russian. 

At  first  I  thought  the  steerage  joyless.  Even 
the  first  cabin  is  apprehensive  of  the  evil  days  to 
come ;  but  the  dense  crowd  opened  like  a  hole  in  a 
doughnut.  A  squat,  sturdy  Russian  danced  with 
athletic  abandon,  and  the  hole  grew  larger  as 
others  joined  him.  The  contagious  rhythm  af- 
fected the  onlookers,  who  clapped  their  hands  and 
beat  the  deck  with  their  feet.  A  semi-American- 
ized Russian  pushed  through  the  crowd  and  asked 
the  balalayka  player  for  ragtime,  and  to  a  poor 
imitation  of  American  jungle-music  he  gyrated, 
then  shimmied,  while  the  crowd  laughed  de- 
risively. "  American  dancing  no  good !  "  they 
cried  and  then  continued  a  la  Russc,  which  was 
more  to  their,  and  my,  liking.  It  was  a  very  un- 
Americanized    crowd.      There    was    fearful    and 


46        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

wonderful  English,  and  more  fearful  and  more 
wonderful  clothes  in  various  combinations.  There 
were  over  1,400  men  going  back,  sturdy,  fine 
physical  specimens,  lured  by  a  dream  which  they 
say  is  taking  shape,  leaving  America  without  re- 
gret. 

The  singing  and  dancing  ceased,  groups  were 
formed,  and  conversation,  oration  and  preach- 
ment began.  They  were  discussing  war,  politics 
and  Bolshevism,  especially  Bolshevism.  Two  men 
talked  back  and  forth  at  each  other  while  the  rest 
stood  by,  pop-eyed  and  open-mouthed.  "  Ha !  " 
says  one  of  them,  "  in  Poland  they  say  they  have 
a  socialized  government.  They  dress  a  man  up 
in  peasant  clothes,  and  he  smokes  and  spits  like  a 
peasant — but  he  is  only  a  puppet,  and  the  aris- 
tocrats pull  the  strings.  In  Russia  under  the 
Soviet  (the  true  Socialist  government),  produc- 
tion belongs  to  the  producer." 

A  tall  young  man  of  more  refined  appearance 
was  reading  "  The  Riddle  of  the  Universe."  He 
is  a  clothing  cutter  and  is  going  back  to  help 
Russia.  All  Russians  are  going  back  to  help 
the  Soviet  Republic.  "  The  new  day  has  come ! 
No  Czar,  no  priests,  no  bosses !  " 

I  joined  another  group,  and  a  rusty,  pale,  pim- 
ple-faced youth  was  talking  about  war.  "  It  says 
plainly  in  the  Bible,  '  Thou  shalt  not  kill,'  "  he 
said,  "  yet  the  priests  are  the  tools  of  the  capital- 
ists." 


THE  NEW  STEERAGE  47 


tc 


'Yea,"  answered  a  broad-shouldered,  flat-faced 
Russian.  "If  Jesus  would  come  to  New  York 
the  priests  would  have  Him  arrested,  and  de- 
ported to  Russia.     In  Russia  He  would  be  wel- 


come." 


Another  group  was  being  read  to  by  a  youth 
of  about  twenty-four.  "  What  are  you  reading  to 
them?"  I  asked.  "  Out  of  the  new  Bible,"  he  re- 
plied, and  showed  me  the  book — Upton  Sinclair's 
"  The  Cry  for  Justice,"  a  compilation  of  the  old 
agonies  and  the  new  prophecies. 

So  enthusiastic,  so  brave,  so  hopeful,  so  en- 
chanted by  new  phrases,  so  eager  to  reach  Soviet 
Russia,  so  glad  to  have  escaped  Capitalistic 
America — and  I  am  sure  that  he  w^ill  be  disillu- 
sioned. 

"Are  you  coming  back  to  America?"  I  asked 
him  in  parting. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  But  then  we,  the  work- 
ers, will  travel  in  luxury,  and  you,  parasites,  will 
be  in  the  steerage." 

There  were  smaller  groups  of  Czechs,  Poles, 
and  Slovaks  who  were  returning,  also  with  new 
hopes  and  ideals;  only  theirs  were  national  and 
not  international,  and  they,  too,  are  ready  to  fight 
and  die  for  them. 

Mankind,  in  the  steerage,  and  out  of  it,  believes 
in  two  religions — Bolshevism  and  Nationalism. 
I  spent  all  my  mornings  interviewing  the  steer- 
age and  I  have  not  found  one  man  who  loves 


48        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

America  as  I  love  it,  or  as  those  loved  it  who  re- 
turned in  the  steerage  prior  to  the  war. 

I  am  sick  at  heart.  It  all  seems  a  great  pity 
and  a  great  waste.  "  America  no  good !  "  And 
it  hurt  to  hear  it,  accustomed  as  I  was  to  their 
adulation,  to  unstinted  praise,  to  their  carrying 
the  American  flag  back  with  them. 

If  they  were  complaining  about  lack  of  work  or 
wages  I  would  not  care;  but  they  are  complaining 
about  our  poverty  of  spirit,  our  lack  of  ideals,  our 
hardness,  and  coldness,  and  blind  suppression. 
"  America  is  ruthless,"  one  of  the  men  told  me. 
"  Life  is  nothing,  money  is  everything.  I  worked 
in  a  shipyard  in  Camden,  and  every  day  regularly 
one  man  or  more  was  killed.  The  Americans 
don't  care;  there  are  other  men  to  take  their 
places." 

"  America  is  like  Russia,"  another  man  com- 
plained. "  And  she  will  be  punished  like  Russia," 
he  prophesied. 

I  have  said  to  my  heart  that  speech  is  of  no 
avail  and  that  I  would  keep  silence — and  lo,  and 
behold,  I  preached  on  the  steerage  deck  six  morn- 
ings in  succession.  Every  word  of  mine  chal- 
lenged and  every  statement  riddled,  as  I  spoke  and 
pled  for  America,  for  a  better  understanding  of 
her ;  not  that  it  matters  much  to  America  that  this 
young  man,  a  native  of  Rochester,  New  York, 
born  of  foreign  parents,  should  go  to  Russia  with 
distorted  vision,  and  cursing  his  country.     But  it 


THE  NEW  STEERAGE  49 

mattered  much  to  me  and  to  him,  and  he  promised 
at  last  to  write  to  me  and  let  me  know  how  he 
fared,  and  what  his  heart  said  to  him,  when  he 
reached  his  voluntary  exile. 

It  meant  much  to  me  to  combat  the  idea  being 
carried  back  by  peasant  Poles,  that  America  has 
no  conscience;  only  cash  registers  and  no  throb- 
bing heart;  only  machinery.  Poor  devils,  I  can- 
not blame  them;  yet  I  bombarded  them  with 
words  and  asked  them:  "Who  cleansed  them  of 
their  filth  but  America?  "  "  Who  debused  their 
children  and  saved  them  from  ignorance  but 
America?"  "Who  gave  them  a  chance  to  lift 
themselves  out  of  their  pauperism  but  America?  " 
I  outdid  all  professional  Americanizers  in  my  at- 
tack upon  their  Ingratitude,  and  my  praise  for 
what  America  had  done  for  them,  and  I  meant 
every  word  of  it. 

I  studied  with  especial  care  the  self-confessed 
Bolsheviks,  and  gave  myself  to  them,  eager  to 
snatch  these  "  brands  from  the  burning."  Some 
of  them  were  highly  nervous  men,  who  could  not 
stand  the  gaff  of  our  industrial  life,  and  were  go- 
ing to  pieces  under  It.  They  were  like  unhappily 
married  husbands  who,  finding  their  wives  shrews, 
lose  their  faith  In  matrimony.  They  were  men 
with  a  superabundance  of  brain,  little  muscle,  and 
narrow  chests ;  they  were  born  to  be  scholars,  not 
labourers,  and  to  tliem  wage-life  was,  Indeed,  slave 
life. 


60        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

There  were  not  a  few  who  suffered  from 
thwarted  ambitions,  who  wanted  to  become  capi- 
taHsts  and  had  not  succeeded;  they  were  perhaps 
not  shrewd  enough,  not  honest  enough,  or  too 
honest.  I  could  not  tell.  I  am  sure  that  a  small 
bank  account  would  have  cured  them  of  Bolshe- 
vism. 

There  were  more  who  had  in  them  the  element 
of  leadership,  the  thirst  for  power,  and  this  was 
a  way  in  which  to  exercise  their  gifts.  In  the 
present  order  there  was  no  chance  for  them. 
They  were  like  Germany,  looking  for  a  "  place 
in  the  sun "  when  all  the  places  were  already 
taken.  They  were  born  agitators,  narrow,  dog- 
matic, eloquent;  and  a  militant  church  lost  some 
possible  bishops,  when  the  Bolshevist  faith  claimed 
them. 

There  was,  however,  a  goodly  number  of  them 
who  were  men  of  vision,  men  with  prophetic  In- 
stinct, who  believed  every  word  they  said,  who 
were  willing  to  suffer  and  die  for  their  convic- 
tions. These  were  the  men  who  pierced  my 
armour  most  effectively,  and  made  me  unsteady 
on  my  feet;  we  saw  alike  the  injustice  of  the 
present  system.  They  saw  a  new  and  better  world 
possible  through  a  new  system;  I  saw  no  chance 
but  through  better  men.  Time  will  prove  which 
of  us  was  right. 


VI 

THE  OLD   CABIN 

IT  is  quite  a  long  journey  from  the  steerage 
to  the  first  cabin;  it  has  taken  me  nearly 
thirty  years  to  reach  it,  and  I  am  not  at  home 
there !  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  love  cleanliness,  and 
cannot  appreciate  rich  comforts.  I  managed  to 
enjoy  my  tea  in  the  Tudor  Hall  and  eat  my  meals 
with  two  stewards  attending  to  my  wants.  I  even 
ate  a  private  dinner  in  a  private  dining-room,  and 
I  took  my  constitutional  daily  on  the  glass-en- 
closed deck;  but  always  with  a  guilty  conscience, 
with  a  look  toward  the  steerage  and  the  memories 
of  its  agonies. 

I  recall  a  journey  on  a  palatial  steamer  of  this 
same  line ;  only  it  was  not  palatial  in  the  steerage. 
Three  days  and  three  nights  a  storm  raged,  and 
we  were  locked  in,  breathing  fetid  air.  We  had 
nothing  to  eat  except  the  same  fat  meats  and  the 
same  soggy  potatoes. 

How  longingly  I  looked  toward  the  clean  cabin, 
and  the  sheltered  decks ;  how  a  glimpse  of  the  gilt, 
and  tinsel,  and  the  clear  crystal  made  me  tremble 
with  joy,  and  how  a  bite  of  delicate  food, 
crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table,"  purchased 

51 


« 


52        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

from  a  steward,  revived  me.  At  that  time 
]\Iarxian  philosophy  had  not  filtered  far  through 
the  steerage,  and  though  I  knew  its  principles,  I 
made  no  demands  for  myself,  neither  was  I  en- 
vious; but  I  realized,  even  then,  how  the  great 
contrasts  in  life  are  overemphasized  on  board 
ship,  how  sharply  the  line  is  drawn,  and  how 
merely  having  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand  dollars 
more  to  spend,  makes  the  vast  differences. 

Then  I  was  pushed  about  by  the  stewards,  like 
so  much  merchandise  which  was  in  the  wrong 
place;  now  I  can  order  them  about,  though  not  so 
freely  as  if  I  had  finer  clothes  and  were  spending 
my  time  in  the  smoking-room,  drinking,  and  bet- 
ting on  the  ship's  run. 

On  the  seven  hundred  feet  of  the  ship's  length, 
not  only  the  whole  social  problem  revealed  it- 
self, but  one's  own  helplessness.  "  To  him  that 
hath  shall  be  given,"  and  evidently  not  according 
to  one's  deeds.  Probably  those  of  us  who  were 
receiving  the  most  service  gave  the  least. 

There  were  titled  women  from  England  In  bad 
need  of  repair,  like  their  half-ruined  castles. 
Maids  and  nurses  travelled  with  them,  and  they 
were  the  centre  of  constant  attention. 

Flabby  Lord  this,  or  Lord  that,  returning  from 
a  hunting  trip  on  some  of  the  far-flung  domains  of 
Great  Britain. 

Ruddy-faced,  beefy  Yorkshire  men,  who  had 
been  inspecting  Alaskan  mines  were  returning  to 


THE  OLD  CABIN  53 

London,  where  they  will  sell  lithographed  papers 
called  by  courtesy,  stock. 

At  my  table  sat  a  nondescript  cosmopolitan 
mongrel,  who  talked  of  women  as  if  they  were 
mere  flesh,  of  men  as  something  which  it  is  good 
to  exploit  at  poker,  and  of  the  United  States  as 
that  "  D — d  place  where  they  restrict  a  man's 
personal  liberty." 

Then  there  were  the  ghastly  women,  enamelled 
and  animated  clothes-racks,  upon  which  some  in- 
dulgent husband  has  hung  fearful  and  wonderful 
garments  and  costly  jewels.  I  may  be  unjust  to 
them ;  perhaps  they  are  getting  according  to  their 
deeds,  but  I  know  that  frank,  open-faced,  boyish 
looking  Sir  Ernest  Shackelton,  simple  and  unaf- 
fected, as  are  the  truly  brave,  was  not  receiv- 
ing half  as  much  attention  as  a  pug-faced  prize- 
fighter, going  back  to  England  with  American 
money  and  a  black  eye  of  the  same  origin. 

I  noticed,  especially,  a  group  of  German  capital- 
ists who  had  gone  to  the  United  States  to  look 
after  their  interests.  They  kept  to  themselves,  a 
huddled,  half-frightened  group,  certainly  sick  at 
heart,  as  they  recalled  the  short  time  ago,  when, 
for  every  great  English  ship  launched  in  Glasgow, 
twin  ships  were  launched  in  Germany;  the  great 
time  when  the  various  Kaisers  and  the  Crown 
Princes  and  Princesses  raced  the  Cunarders  and 
the  White  Star  boats  across  the  Atlantic. 

The  Ltisitama  is  avenged,  and  its  ghost  haunted 


M       OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

those  Germans  as  we  sat  in  the  smoking-room,  and 
talked  over  the  difference  between  EngHsh  and 
German  Imperialism.  I  could  not  convince  them 
there  was  a  difference  in  aim ;  but  they  acquiesced, 
though  reluctantly,  when  I  showed  them  that  right 
there  on  our  boat  there  was  a  difference  in 
method. 

The  captain  of  the  ship,  the  largest  and  fastest 
English  built  ship,  is  a  modest,  gray-haired  gentle- 
man, whom  nobody  noticed  as  he  crossed  the  deck, 
and  I  had  to  be  told  that  he  was  the  captain.  I 
might  have  taken  him  to  be  an  English  business 
man  who  happened  to  wear  a  dark  blue  suit,  and 
a  sailor  cap. 

I  have  sailed  on  all  the  big  German  boats  and 
have  watched  their  captains,  with  their  chests  ex- 
panded in  ratio  with  the  ship's  tonnage,  their 
voices  harsher  and  more  commanding  as  the  num- 
ber of  smokestacks  multiplied,  and  the  sirens  grew 
louder.  When  they  paced  the  deck  it  was  with 
martial  tread,  and  when  they  smiled  at  one,  it  was 
as  by  the  Grace  of  His  Majesty.  Only  the  blind 
could  be  ignorant  that  they  were  the  captains,  for 
their  gold  braid  rivalled  the  sunset. 

Good  discipline,  like  good  children,  should  be 
"  seen  and  not  heard."  German  discipline  was 
both  seen  and  heard,  in  fact  it  shrieked  so  noisily 
that  it  got  onto  the  nerves  of  mankind.  My 
German  companions  who  drank  their  English  ale 
very  solemnly,  agreed  with  me  that  Germany  was 


THE  OLD  CABIN  56 

at  least  more  provocative  in  her  method,  and 
therefore  the  more  guilty.  Germany  lacked  that 
sense  of  respect  for  the  individual  which  is  char- 
acteristic of  Britons;  for  whatever  else  their 
faults,  they  have  a  realization  of  the  value  of  other 
people's  traditions,  which  makes  them  better  ru- 
lers of  weaker  peoples;  something  the  Germans 
seemed  unable  to  learn. 

One  of  the  men  who  had  not  realized  that  Eng- 
lish ale  was  stronger  than  German  beer  said: 
"  Veil,  ve  helt  our  noses  so  high  up  ze  air,  unt  ve 
fell  into  ze — ditch.  Now  ve  vill  get  out  of  it,  you 
bet  ve  vill."    Doubtless  they  will. 

Of  course,  there  were  Americans  on  board  in 
goodly  numbers,  many  of  them  of  English  blood, 
but  strikingly  un-English.  Keen-eyed  captains  of 
industry,  going  over  to  scan  the  stormy  horizon 
of  the  industrial  world — eager  to  export  Ameri- 
can goods,  more  eager  to  shut  out  foreign  goods 
from  America;  an  impossible  thing  which  a  Re- 
publican administration  will  try  to  make  possible. 

I  like  to  look  at  such  well-groomed  men.  If 
their  eyes  are  blue,  they  turn  to  gray  when  they 
talk  business,  and  I  should  hate  to  have  to  match 
my  wits  against  theirs  in  trading.  There  were 
many  buyers  on  board,  bound  for  Paris,  and  a 
sort  of  General  Department  Store  air  betrayed 
their  vocation.  Numbers  of  them  were  floor- 
walkers once,  and  one  never  overcomes  the  habit. 
The  males  wore  the  last  thing  in  men's  clothing. 


56        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

and  the  females  the  least  thing  in  women's,  a  mix- 
ture of  elegance  and  vulgarity. 

There  were  smartly  gowned,  well-bred  Ameri- 
can women,  who  were  helping  to  save  France  at 
long  range  during  the  war,  and  were  going  over  to 
inhale  the  fragrance  of  their  good  deeds;  there 
were  middle-aged  couples  going  to  Egypt  for  the 
season,  and  there  were  not  a  few,  who,  judging 
from  their  behaviour  in  the  smoking-room,  jour- 
neyed across,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  slaking  a 
long  thirst,  undisturbed  by  a  cruel  amendment  to 
the  Constitution. 

Some  men  on  board  knew  me,  and  I  piloted 
them  over  the  steerage,  where  they  watched  my 
mental  fisticuffs  in  the  Bolshevik  arena.  We  dis- 
cussed these  things  afterwards.  Curious,  that  my 
acquaintances  who  have  large  economic  interests, 
know  nothing  of  economics.  They  have  read 
nothing  but  the  stock  reports,  the  sporting  page; 
they  have  gone  to  no  plays  except  musical  come- 
dies, and  they  meet  my  arguments  with  such 
phrases  as:  "  We  must  break  the  power  of  organ- 
ized labour." 

The  poor  things  do  not  know  that  If  they  break 
the  power  of  organized  labour,  they  break  the  dam 
which  holds  back  the  Bolsheviki.  They  laugh  at 
me  because  I  tell  them  that  they  would  do  well  to 
make  friends  of  organized  labour;  in  fact,  they 
could  afford  to  be  friendly  with  the  right  wing  of 
the  socialist  party. 


THE  OLD  CABIN  57 

"  Line  them  up  against  a  wall  and  shoot 
them!"  "Hang  them!"  These  are  the  reme- 
dies they  propose  for  a  sick  world  suffering  from 
vertigo. 

Everything  which  they  cannot  understand  is 
dangerous,  and  they  have  no  patience  with  me  be- 
cause I  try  to  make  them  understand. 

I  like  the  Sunday  on  board  an  English  ship,  if 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  hear  the  service  read 
by  a  ship's  officer,  in  a  layman's  way  and  with  a 
layman's  voice.  The  pulpit  tone  spoils  it  for  me. 
This  Sunday,  a  young — very  young — third,  or 
fourth  officer  read  the  service.  He  blushed  so 
beautifully,  as  with  fear  and  trembling  he  as- 
cended those  Old  Testament  heights,  and  stum- 
bled over  them  as  he  pronounced  their  names. 

I  listened  to  the  great  confession  to  which  the 
small  congregation  in  the  Tudor  room  assented, 
what  sinners  they  confessed  themselves  to  be  in 
general.  I  wonder  what  they  would  say  to  a  bill 
of  specifications? 

I  wonder,  too,  if  the  compilers  of  the  Prayer 
Book  had  no  sense  of  humour;  for  as  I  heard  the 
prayers,  I  noticed  that  they  took  it  for  granted 
that  the  Almighty  can  easily  convert  the  heathen 
and  the  Jews,  and  can  bless  all  manner  and  condi- 
tions of  people  without  difficulty;  but  when  they 
wrote  the  prayer  for  the  clergy,  they  realized  the 
Lord's  problem. 

"  Oh  Lord,"  they  wrote,  "  Thou  Who  perform- 


68        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

est  miracles,  move  the  hearts  of  the  Bishops  and 
the  Clergy." 

I  smiled  to  myself,  then  I  grew  very  serious. 
They  were  after  all,  right.  Converting  the  Clergy 
may  be  the  Lord's  hardest  task;  and  if  they  were 
all  converted  as  Paul  was  converted,  as  John  was 
converted,  as  Wesley  and  Finney  were  converted, 
the  rest  of  the  task  would  be  comparatively  easy. 

Six  days  we  had  been  on  board  ship,  so  com- 
fortable that  we  were  unconscious  of  both  ship 
and  sea,  and  much  of  that  comfort  was  due  to  the 
men  who  served;  who  did  the  hard  and  dirty  and 
dangerous  things. 

As  I  sat  writing,  the  steward  was  walking  about 
attending  to  his  duties.  The  last  time  I  sailed, 
his  class  was  servile — beaten  into  servility.  His 
was  an  ill-paid  task.  He  had  to  eat  his  meals 
standing,  and  I  have  seen  him  asleep,  leaning 
against  a  pillar. 

What  marked  my  steward  was  his  evident 
self-respect.  He  did  his  work  without  cringing 
and  without  debasement.  He  was  not  ordered 
about  as  if  he  were  a  slave;  he  seemed  to  take 
pleasure  in  seeing  me  comfortable,  and  he  took  as 
much  pride  in  making  my  bed  as  I  am  taking  in 
writing  my  book. 

"  There  is  the  light  at  Land's  End ! "  he  cried. 
I  dropped  my  pen  and  ran  to  see  its  welcome, 
flashing  over  the  deep. 


VII 

THE  COST  OF  "  LA  PATRIE  " 


N 


ORMALCY  "  is  a  poorly-made  but  ex- 
pressive word,  and  the  shores  of 
France,  rising  out  of  the  mist  of  a 
raw,  March  day,  have  attained  it.  The  eye 
searches  in  vain  for  some  dent,  or  bruise,  or  ugly 
scar,  left  by  the  teeth  of  the  war-dogs. 

The  great  convulsion  has  affected  the  continent 
of  Europe  about  as  much  as  a  war  between  red 
ants  and  white  ants  would  affect  the  crust  of 
Africa.  One  moment's  trembling  of  the  bosom  of 
Mother  Earth,  one  instant's  swaying  of  the  eternal 
balances — "  He  uttereth  His  voice — the  earth 
melteth." 

Verily,  man  is  still  like  an  ant,  in  spite  of  hav- 
ing put  fire  to  his  anger,  the  fierce  blast  to  his 
fury,  and  poison-gas  to  his  hate.  He  can  never 
equal  God,  except  in  his  love,  and  in  that  he  is 
still  not  much  larger  than  an  ant. 

The  straight  lines  of  the  breakwater  of  Cher- 
bourg, the  fine  harbour  safely  tucked  behind  it 
and  the  welcome  green  of  an  early  spring,  made 
one  conscious  that  the  boat  had  stopped ;  just  as  a 
sound  sleeper  wakens  to  the  morning. 

59 


60        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

The  prophets  who  compared  mankind  to  sheep 
knew  both  sheep  and  men,  and  we  crowded  and 
pushed  though  there  were  ample  space  and  time, 
and  the  boat  was  in  no  danger  of  sinking. 

Never  having  had  the  need  of  a  passport  be- 
fore, except  in  going  to  Russia,  I  now  had  my  first 
taste  of  the  freedom  for  which  milUons  of  men 
gave  their  lives.  I  stood  in  line  for  two  hours, 
holding  in  my  hands  two  precious  pieces  of  paste- 
board containing  a  description  of  myself  (fur- 
nished by  a  reluctant  and  homely  lady  clerk  in  a 
United  States  Court),  the  signature  of  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  and  my  picture.  ("  Ten  for  a  dollar 
—finished  while  you  wait.")  "Oh  Lord!"  if  I 
really  look  like  this,  no  wonder  the  French  officer 
scrutinized  me  suspiciously  and  carefully  before 
he  permitted  me  to  pass  into  beautiful  France. 

A  thousand  passengers  for  Paris,  and  we  were 
all  seemingly  loaded  into  the  same  fragile-looking 
boat,  our  luggage  thrown  in  through  a  chute,  the 
struggling  mass  of  passengers  entangling  and  dis- 
entangling itself  In  the  attempt  to  put  themselves 
and  their  belongings  together,  before  we  reached 
the  Custom  House.  Followed  the  hurried  exami- 
nation, came  the  race  for  the  train,  the  same 
leisurely  journey  to  Paris  and  our  arrival  there  at 
the  most  inconvenient  hour  of  three  o'clock  In  the 
morning. 

The  city  looked  like  a  great  gray  cat  asleep,  and 
I  loved  to  listen  to  her  purrings.      Gaunt,  witch- 


THE  COST  OF  "LA  PATEIE  "  61 

like  women  appeared,  before  the  sun,  and  began  to 
scratch  the  cat's  back  with  long-handled  brooms, 
making  her  purr  a  little  louder.  Milkmen  and 
breadmen  made  their  rounds,  carts  rumbled,  mar- 
ket-women scolded,  keys  rattled  in  locks,  shutters 
M'ere  lifted,  and  the  sleeping,  gray  cat  awoke. 
Then  I  noticed  that  she  wasn't  a  cat  at  all  but  a 
kitten — eternally  the  same  young,  kittenish  kitten; 
but  she  has  the  claws  of  an  old  cat. 

Paris,  the  city  of  cities,  looks,  if  anything, 
younger,  more  brilliant  and  enchanting,  more  con- 
sciously and  proudly  French. 

France  is  swept  clean  of  American  uniforms,  of 
Red  Cross  nurses,  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretaries  in 
khaki,  of  Y.  W.  C.  A.  workers,  of  all  the  dear  and 
good  saviours  of  that  country,  with  their  signs  and 
symbols  and  badges,  who  came  with  willing  hearts, 
more  or  less  skillful  hands,  and  an  overabundance 
of  zeal ;  all  anxious  and  over-anxious  to  make  the 
French  people  efficient.    They  are  all  but  gone. 

Paris  was  glad  they  came,  and  is  more  than 
glad  that  they  are  gone.  Now  she  is  welcoming 
those  Americans  who  come  without  smelling  of 
disinfectants  or  the  odour  of  sanctity — who  do 
not  care  to  save  anything  or  anybody,  not  even 
themselves. 

Lovely,  leisurely  Paris,  is  crazily  busy  in  pur- 
veying pleasure.  As  always,  one  crosses  the 
boulevards  in  safety,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  not 
by  the  care  of  the  traffic  policeman.    Guides  haunt 


62        OLD  TEAILS  AlH)  NEW  BOEDEES 

one  with  their  desire  to  show  off  Paris  by  night. 
Cook's  and  The  American  Express  offices  are 
crowded  by  famihar,  and  not  always  pleasant, 
types  of  Americans,  and  one  cannot  imagine  that 
a  little  while  ago  the  city's  walls  vibrated  to  the 
shock  of  bombs  and  shells,  that  anxious  eyes 
watched  the  sky  for  the  "  terror  which  flieth  by 
night  " — and  day ;  that  here  was  the  aching  heart 
of  a  nation,  feeling  the  beat  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
battle. 

I  wondered  what  would  have  happened  in  a 
city  less  moulded  by  national  spirit,  less  immune 
to  the  pain  of  war  through  previous  experience? 

What  would  have  happened,  say,  in  New  York, 
if  that  city  had  been  within  the  range  of  big  guns 
for  months?  If  the  shadow  of  enemy  fliers  had 
been  cast  over  Fifth  Avenue  for  years?  I  imagine 
that  New  York  would  have  stood  the  test  as  Paris 
has,  and  one  must  remember,  too,  that  Paris  had 
nearly  the  whole  world  to  comfort  her  and  to 
feed  her,  and  more  than  half  the  world  ready  to 
defend  her. 

There  were  but  few  homes  in  the  United  States 
from  which  sustenance  in  one  form  or  another 
did  not  reach  France.  Milk  for  the  babies,  meat 
for  the  soldiers,  clothing  for  the  refugees.  We 
ate  impossible  mixtures  of  flour  substitutes  that 
France  might  have  wheat  for  her  bread;  we  sang 
the  "  Marseillaise  "  better  than  we  sang  the  Star 
Spangled  Banner;  men  prayed   for  France,   and 


THE  COST  OF  <*  LA  PATEIE  "  63 

fought  for  France,  and  threw  themselves  into  the 
conlhct  for  love  of  the  great  enchantress. 

Without  blare  of  trumpets,  unnoticed  and  un- 
announced, came  the  Quakers  from  England — and 
from  America,  when  America  entered  the  war. 
Unarmed  men  and  women  in  gray,  good  Samari- 
tans, ready  to  do  clean  work,  dirty  work,  safe 
work,  or  dangerous  work ;  everything  but  kill  men. 

They  transported  women  and  children  to  zones 
of  safety;  gave  them  beds  for  the  night;  fed  them 
when  food  was  scarce  and  dear;  stood  at  the  cross- 
roads to  direct  the  solid  streams  of  fleeing  hu- 
manity ;  unloaded  the  wounded  as  they  came  from 
the  field  of  battle,  and  gave  first  aid  to  the  Red 
Cross,  when  that  organization  had  more  than  it 
could  do. 

The  Quakers  have  built  houses  at  Troyes,  at 
Dole,  at  Desancin,  and  over  the  ruins  of  Verdun. 
Carloads  and  trainloads  of  houses  were  built  as  if 
by  magic,  overnight,  at  a  time  when  a  whole  roof 
meant  home  and  peace  again. 

There  is  not  a  name  made  illustrious  by  heroic 
fighting,  to  which  the  Quakers  did  not  add  lustre 
by  their  heroic  service.  They  reaped  grain  near 
the  battlefields  of  the  Marne,  and  when  the  air 
was  still  vibrant  with  the  hum  of  flying  machines, 
their  threshing  machines  beat  out  the  grain  for 
much-needed  bread.  They  restocked  farms  with 
bees,  with  cattle,  and  with  poultry.  No  work  was 
too  great  or  too  small  for  them  to  undertake. 


64        OLD  .TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

I  visited  the  Quaker  Headquarters  in  the  Hotel 
Brittanique,  on  the  Avenue  Victoria,  which,  is 
quiet  and  very  respectable,  as  behooves  an  Avenue 
named  after  the  British  Queen.  The  hotel  is 
modest  enough  and  would  be  called  second-rate 
in  time  of  peace.  It  is  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  palatial  headquarters  of  other  relief  organiza- 
tions. From  there  the  emissaries  of  good-will  and 
practical  helpfulness  went  to  all  parts  of  the  war 
zone.     They  are  called  by  the  French  "  L'Amis" 

The  Friends  were  gathering  for  their  "  first 
day  "  meeting. 

Most  of  them  were  from  England,  as  evidenced 
by  their  heavy  boots,  solemn  demeanour,  unemo- 
tional features,  and  unmistakable  English  voices. 
A  few  of  them  were  French,  not  proselytes  of 
war-time;  for  the  Friends  have  made  no  propa- 
ganda and  asked  neither  souls  nor  statistics  as  a 
reward  for  their  labour.  The  French  men  and 
women  at  the  meeting  had  for  a  long  time  waited 
for  the  inner  voice  and  the  leading  of  God,  and 
had  discovered  in  the  Quakers,  kindred  spirits. 

The  room  in  which  they  met  was  simple  and 
homely;  an  office,  library,  sitting-room  and  meet- 
ing-place combined.  The  meeting  began  with  rig- 
orous silence.  They  were  waiting  for  God  to 
speak  through  them. 

The  eye  of  the  uninitiated  wandered  from  face 
lo  face,  heavy- featured  most  of  them,  showing 


THE  COST  OF  "LA  PATEIE"  65 

both  struggle  and  victory.  Careless  of  modes 
tliey  were — tlie  hats  of  the  women  unspeakably 
out  of  mode  with  up-to-the-minute  Paris,  the 
skirts  shockingly  low,  and  tlie  waists  high,  re- 
versing the  world  order. 

Ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed;  the  inner  voice  was 
still  unmoved  by  the  spirit,  and  the  onlooker  be- 
came restless.  At  the  more  formal  meetings  to 
which  he  is  accustomed,  the  minister  would  have 
been  a  third  of  the  way  through  the  order  of  serv- 
ice. At  last  a  voice  was  heard:  low,  sweet,  me- 
lodious.   A  man  began  to  speak  in  French. 

If  Jesus  could  have  had  His  choice  in  speaking 
a  modem  tongue,  He  would  have  spoken  in  that 
language — not  a  harsh  note  in  it.  The  Sermon 
en  the  Mount  ought  always  to  be  read  in  French. 
That  man  echoed  its  spirit,  and  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  the  voice  were  coming  from  a  far- 
away source.  It  was  not  preaching,  it  was  re- 
vealing, and  though  my  understanding  of  French 
is  poor,  I  was  carried  along  upon  the  stream  of 
peace  which  was  poured  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
man.  Only  the  voice  of  God  within  him  could 
make  a  Frenchman,  at  this  time,  speak  as  he  spoke. 

"  The  whole  world  is  confused  and  stricken 
with  paralysis  and  it  needs  guidance  and  healing. 
Guidance  toward  peace,  and  healing  from  hate," 
he  said.  "  The  nations  have  been  drunk  with 
power  and  blinded  by  greed;  they  deserved  the 
punishment  meted  out  to  them,  and  now  their  only 


€6        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

Salvation  is  to  turn  to  God.  In  the  Catholic  cathe- 
drals, in  the  formal  Protestant  churches,  in  the 
Jewish  synagogues  men  need  to  turn  to  God;  for 
God  is  everywhere,  even  as  He  is  here." 

There  was  another  long  silence,  then  a  deep, 
rich,  heavy  almost  masculine  voice  was  heard.  An 
English  woman  was  speaking  in  her  own  tongue, 
and  she,  too,  spoke  as  the  spirit  moved  her. 

"  The  Apostle  Paul  did  not  know,  when  he  gave 
the  formula  of  unity,  *  One  Lord,  One  faith,  One 
baptism,'  that  the  whole  of  Christendom  would  be 
divided  into  countless  sects,"  she  declared,  "  that 
church  members  of  diverse  creeds  would  hate  one 
another.  He  did  not  know,  that  after  two  thou- 
sand years,  these  breaches  would  remain  unhealed, 
that  new  ones  would  arise,  that  nations  would 
commit  suicide  because  of  mutual  hate,  that  races 
and  classes  would  cleave  society  into  hundreds  of 
fragments." 

She  pled  for  mutual  understanding,  forbear- 
ance and  patience.  It  was  hers  to  gather  the 
scattered,  abandoned  children  of  many  race  mix- 
tures, branded  by  the  curse  of  war;  mothers  re- 
pudiating them,  because  maternity  had  been 
thrust  upon  them ;  but  in  all  of  them  she  had  found 
the  common  need  of — and  the  common  response 
to — love. 

"  Some  day  It  is  all  coming  true,"  she  W'ent  on. 
"  We  do  not  as  yet  understand  the  law  w^hlch  un- 
derlies the  movements  of  the  human  race,  the 


THE  COST  OF  ''LA  PATEIE"  67 

pressure  of  history;  even  as  we  do  not  understand 
the  law  of  gravitation.  We  seem  farthest  from 
unity  now,  we  may  be  nearer  than  we  think." 

Then  a  woman,  her  face  framed  in  widow's 
weeds,  bowed  her  head  and  prayed.  Her  husband 
had  been  killed  at  Verdun,  and  such  a  prayer  as 
hers  must  not  be  reported. 

The  Quakers'  confidence  and  peace  are  the  re- 
sult of  their  work  in  France  when  France  was 
bleeding,  and  now,  when  the  wound  is  healing. 

I  did  not  want  to  visit  the  war-zone,  yet  I  had 
to  pass  through  it.  The  Gare  du  Nord  is  normal, 
soldiers  still  crowd  the  cars;  the  blue-gray  of  their 
uniforms  is  now  spick  and  span,  and  their  young 
faces  have  lost  their  anxiety. 

The  environs  of  Paris  had  remained  un- 
scathed, the  young  spring  had  budded  the  trees, 
there  were  timid  blossoms.  Here  and  there,  men 
and  women  were  breaking  the  expectant  earth. 
New  roofs  and  walls,  the  scars  of  war,  increased 
in  frequency,  then  suddenly  we  saw  a  desolated 
village.  Black,  broken,  empty  walls,  church  tow- 
ers like  decayed  teeth  in  the  shrunken  gums  of  the 
aged.  Then  a  town  in  ruins,  a  chateau  devastated, 
a  name  to  thrill  one — Chateau  Thierry! 

The  edge  of  the  German  push,  at  which  the 
Yankees  stood,  and  the  miracle  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  was  performed.  Something  gripped  my 
throat,  my  cheek  felt  the  scalding  tears,  and  the 
cloud  of  war  hung  over  me  again.    Other  names 


68        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

we  passed,  which  three  years  ago  were  not  merely 
railroad  stations,  but  marked  the  recession  or  the 
advance  of  civilization.  Then  the  immortal 
Mame,  and  I  was  in  Chalons. 

The  driver  of  the  cab  did  not  understand  my 
French;  but  "L'Amis"  caught  fire  in  his  slow 
brain,  and  he  began  to  drive  me  through  the  long, 
ugly  streets  of  his  provincial  city,  over  the  rough, 
cobblestone  pavement — then  through  an  unfin- 
ished arch.  He  told  me  that  it  was  built  in  honour 
of  Marie  Antoinette  when  she  came  from  Austria 
to  marry  a  French  king,  and  through  it  she  passed 
again  in  her  unsuccessful  flight. 

"  You  drove  her,  of  course,"  I  said — congratu- 
lating myself  on  my  wit. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  looking  at  me  re- 
proachfully; "every  devil  of  an  American  has 
tried  the  same  joke  on  me." 

At  the  northern  edge  of  the  city,  behind  the 
grim  walls  of  the  poorhouse,  I  heard  the  voices 
of  children,  pathetic  voices,  crying  mostly.  Out 
there  they  were  wrapped  in  gray  blankets,  catch- 
ing the  sunshine  which  makes  their  pale,  pinched 
faces  ghost-like.  There  were  nurses  in  Quaker 
gray.  One  of  them,  an  English  girl,  took  my 
card.  I  was  expected,  and  the  directress.  Made- 
moiselle Merle,  would  be  down  in  a  minute,  she 
said. 

In  those  few,  drear  rooms,  the  great  work  of 
saving  the  children  of  that  region  is  being  doBC 


THE  COST  OF  "LA  PATEIE  "  69 

Through  the  window  I  saw  a  famiUar  sight — 
clapboard  houses,  built  "  a  I'Americaine  "  by  the 
Quakers.  They  withstood  the  bombardment, 
while  the  heavier  walls  and  roofs  succumbed. 

Mademoiselle  Merle  came.  She  has  a  finely- 
cut,  French  face.  Huguenot,  staunch.  It  might  be 
austere,  were  it  not  for  the  love  and  light  within. 
She  told  her  story,  simply  and  with  dramatic  di- 
rectness. The  numerous  evacuations,  the  nights 
in  the  champagne  cellars  (not  cabarets  for  drink- 
ing, but  cellars  where  wine  was  stored,  not  con- 
sumed). The  harvest  of  homeless,  parentless, 
abandoned  children,  the  coming  of  expectant 
mothers,  the  difficulties  of  organizing  the  work, 
the  final  triumph.  Catholics,  Protestants  and  Jews 
forming  a  committee,  and  best  of  all,  the  building 
of  a  modern  maternity  hospital,  the  first  of  its 
kind  in  France,  founded  and  endowed  by  English 
and  American  Quakers. 

I  wanted  to  see  the  children,  and  much  as  I  love 
children  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  them.  Abandoned 
children,  many  of  them  forced  into  life  by  the 
brutality  of  war.  No  pretence  even,  of  love,  all 
anguish,  pain  and  hate,  and  they  show  it. 

One  picture  is  enough:  A  small  bundle  of  hu- 
manity, a  broad  Mongolian  skull,  black,  coarse 
hair,  straight  French  eyes  with  a  trace  of  the 
Mongolian  fold  on  the  eyelid.  The  mother  is  a 
sixteen-year-old  girl,  forced  by  two  Amiamese 
soldiers. 


70        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOKDERS 

Children  are  nursed  back  to  health;  there  are 
some  with  rickets,  others  are  imbeciles,  and  worse, 
some  are  poisoned  by  syphilis.  Why  are  they  per- 
mitted to  live  ? 

Up-stairs  is  the  maternity  ward.  If  this  is  the 
best  in  France,  what  must  be  the  worst?  Bed 
upon  bed,  and  the  cradles  touching  each  other. 
Mothers  are  compelled  to  nurse  their  babies,  so 
that  they  may  learn  to  love  them.  After  two 
weeks  some  of  them  do.  Others  gladly  abandon 
them  to  the  Ponponiere.  The  state  needs  popula- 
tion, especially  boys,  and  it  asks  but  few  questions 
as  to  the  wherefore  or  the  why. 

My  tour  of  inspection  was  followed  by  tea — 
English  tea;  and  there  were  English,  American 
and  French  nurses.  So  this  institution  is  to  re- 
main one  of  true  internationalism,  perpetuated  by 
the  love  of  humanity. 

When  I  returned  to  Paris  I  did  what  I  have  so 
often  done  in  New  York.  I  walked  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  city;  through  forbiddingly 
monotonous  streets,  along  straight  avenues,  and 
circled  its  system  of  boulevards.  I  envied  Paris 
its  unity,  though  I  found  it  monotonously  gray, 
and  the  walk  toilsome.  There  are  no  Ghettos, 
little  Italics,  Hungaries  or  Chinatowns  to  stumble 
into.  The  poverty,  filth,  and  vice,  are  all  of  one 
brand,  and  not  International.  But  let  no  Ameri- 
can think  that  because  Paris  is  French,  Paris  is 
safe   from   social  and  political  upheavals.     The 


THE  COST  OF  "LA  PATRIE'  71 

cleavage  between  rich  and  poor  is  great  enough; 
but  there  is  more  open  discontent,  the  radicals  are 
not  in  hiding,  and  they  are  more  vocal  than  in  the 
United  States.  They  are  represented  in  parlia- 
ment, they  have  an  elite  leadership,  and  an  output 
of  a  high  type  of  revolutionary  literature. 

That  very  day  there  was  a  rumour  of  mutiny 
in  a  regiment  destined  for  the  occupation  of 
Germany,  and  it  marched  under  guard  to  the  rail- 
road station;  but  beside  the  tri-colour  floated  the 
red  flag. 

Victory  has  left  the  reactionary,  military  party 
in  control;  but  had  France  been  defeated,  and  had 
Russia  been  victorious,  Bolshevism  would  have 
raged  in  Paris  rather  than  in  Moscow.  Though 
Paris  is  at  least  ninety-nine  per  cent,  pure  French, 
the  present  order  will  remain  undisturbed,  only,  as 
long  as  the  suffering  among  the  working  men  is 
at  the  minimum. 

However,  it  is  true  that  nationalism  in  France 
is  in  no  immediate  danger  of  being  swallowed  by 
internationalism,  or  capitalism  by  Bolshevism. 
**  France  "  is  not  a  label  pasted  onto  a  country,  it 
is  woven  into  the  fabric  of  the  nation's  life.  I 
felt  this  keenly  as  I  approached  the  Arc  de 
Triomph,  the  meeting  point  of  Avenues  and  vistas 
of  history.  There  the  love  and  loyalty  of  the  na- 
tion, and  its  still  great  grief  are  poignantly  felt. 
Overshadowed  bv  gray  stones,  eloquent  with  the 
names  of  heroes — names  which  make  French  his- 


72        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

tory — lies  an  unknown  soldier.  The  French  have 
done  wisely  not  to  bury  him  m  a  cathedral,  as  did 
the  English,  or  in  a  National  Cemetery  as  has  been 
done  by  Americans;  but  right  out  there  in  the 
open,  at  the  meeting  point  of  hurrying  feet.  It 
is  the  most  simple,  at  the  same  time  the  most  dra- 
matic war  memorial  in  existence. 

"  Ici  repose  un  soldat  Francais  mort  pour 
La  Patrie — 1914-1^18  " 

Every  foot  is  arrested,  every  head  is  bowed, 
there  is  a  quivering  of  lips,  a  shedding  of  tears. 
Children  are  lifted  above  the  crowd  to  have  a 
look,  young  boys  grow  solemn,  young  girls  weep, 
and  one  feels  like  comforting  the  women  in 
mourning,  who,  dry-eyed,  gaze  at  the  stone.  They 
are  the  numberless  mothers  and  widows,  whose 
loved  ones  are  among  the  missing,  and  they  have 
wept  until  they  can  weep  no  more. 

Millions  of  French  women  have  suffered,  mil- 
lions of  young  men  have  died,  and  in  some  way 
this  grave  of  an  unknown  soldier  visualizes  for 
an  instant  the  preciousness  of  France  to  the 
French,  and  the  cost  of  "  ha  Patrie." 


VIII 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HILLS 

C>(  ERMANY,  1914.  German  ships,  German 
-w-  songs,  German  music,  German  science, 
■^    the  German  army  and  the  Kaiser. 

Germany,  1931?  Gray  skies,  the  peaks  of  the 
Bavarian  Alps  playing  hide  and  seek  in  the  clouds, 
mist  rising  from  Lake  Constance,  gray  skies — 
clouds — mists.  It  was  a  defeated  and  humiliated 
Germany  that  I  found  in  1921.  I  saw  it  in  the 
listless  crowd  gathered  at  the  boat-landing,  I  no- 
ticed it  in  the  officials  who  examined  my  passport 
and  my  baggage.  The  two  pellets  of  saccharin 
which  came  with  my  coffee  proclaimed  it,  and  the 
stack  of  paper  marks  given  me  in  exchange  for 
my  Swiss,  silver  coin,  told  the  story. 

The  waiter's  suit  blended  with  the  prevailing 
gray,  and  the  second-class  railroad  coach  which 
took  me  on  my  journey  had  a  humble  and  de- 
graded look  and  seemed  a  few  classes  below  its 
original  station.  My  fellow  passengers  hugged 
the  corner  seats  and  gave  curt  answers  to  my  per- 
sistent questions. 

Bavaria,  the  most  smiling  of  the  German  states 

73 


74        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

with  its  rich  plains,  picturesque  villages,  clean 
cities  and  lofty  mountains;  with  its  tingling  Celtic 
blood  unrepressed  by  the  sedate  Teutonic  blend — 
even  Bavaria  looked  somber  in  spite  of  the  con- 
quering sunshine.  It  was  gloomy  and  silent, 
though  it  was  Sunday,  when  ordinarily  beer  and 
song,  and  fun  and  fights  enlivened  the  day  of  rest. 

So  this  was  after-war  Germany!  Intact, 
scarcely  a  brick  out  of  place;  yet  Northern  France, 
through  which  I  passed  a  few  days  before,  with 
the  skeletons  of  villages,  towns  and  cities  rattling 
their  bones  at  me,  and  the  ghosts  of  houses  and 
churches  pursuing  me,  is  less  damaged  in  spirit, 
where  the  damage  waits  longest  for  repair. 

There  is  Munich.  If  one  knew  Germany  in  the 
old  days  one  loved  Munich,  the  friendliest  of  her 
cities  and,  in  many  respects,  the  most  beautiful; 
a  benign  sort  of  beauty,  unspoiled  except  in  spots 
by  impossible  Germanias  and  other  Hohenzollern 
glorifications  in  bronze  and  stone.  But  there  were 
the  quiet,  solemn,  picture  galleries  which  exalted 
nothing  but  art;  the  Fraiien  Kirchc,  with  its  twin 
towers  like  huge,  cowled  monks,  casting  long 
shadows ;  the  unrivalled  opera,  the  annual  cycle  of 
Wagner,  the  splendid  art  stores,  where  if  one 
lingered,  one  was  lost,  to  the  tune  of  a  good  many 
hundreds  of  marks. 

Every  one  remembers  the  banter  and  laughter 
in  the  Hofbrau  with  its  smoky  rafters,  its  thou- 
sands of  guests,  its  modest  revellers  happier  over 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HILLS  75 

their  steins  and  sausage  and  pretzels,  than  Lucul- 
lus  ever  was.  It  is  all  there,  unharmed  by  bullets 
or  the  Volstead  act — but  as  different  from  what 
ii  once  was  as  a  sick  man  is  from  one  who  is  well, 
or  as  a  psychopathic  ward  in  a  hospital  is  different 
from  a  kindergarten. 

Fat-bellied  men,  rosy-cheeked  women  and  chil- 
dren, the  noisy  throng  of  students,  Cook's  tourists 
making  their  weary  rounds  through  the  art  gal- 
leries; throngs  crowding  around  the  displays  in 
the  art  stores,  the  martial  beat  upon  the  pavement 
made  by  marching  soldiers;  gossiping  women  in 
the  doorways,  tipsy  beer  consumers  singing  folk- 
songs— are  no  more.  Munich  is  ashen  gray,  the 
street  traffic  is  negligible  and  the  public  buildings 
neglected.  No  picturesque  soldiers  are  on  guard, 
and  the  nights  are  silent  and  long.  The  steins  are 
only  half  full  and  "  the  mourners  go  about  the 
streets."  Munich  is  sick,  physically  depleted  and 
mentally  deranged — and  no  wonder!  It  went 
through  the  war,  a  terrible  revolution,  a  counter 
revolution,  and  famine.  It  has  to  drink  beer  with- 
out "  influence  "  and  it  daily  sees  women,  children 
and  university  students  fed  by  the  bounty  of  a 
triumphant  enemy;  it  feels  the  relentless  grip  of 
the  Allies ;  it  swung  from  the  extreme  left  of  Bol- 
shevism to  the  extreme  right  of  Monarchism, 
where  it  now  is,  digging  in — waiting 

Any  one  who  knows  Munich  knows  the  hotel, 
"  Zu  den   Vicr  Jahrcs  Zeitcn"  a  modest  place, 


76        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

famed  for  its  quiet,  and  the  respectability  of  its 
guests,  a  reputation  I  had  no  intention  of  injur- 
ing; yet  my  room  was  visited  one  night  by  two 
patrols  of  police:  one  concerned  with  my  morals, 
the  other  with  my  passport. 

I  shall  long  remember  the  afternoon  spent  at 
the  police  station;  the  crowded  room,  full  of 
strangers  seeking  to  obtain  permission  to  stay  be- 
yond the  twenty-four  hour  limit,  permission  which 
was  quickly  granted  me  when  my  turn  came,  and 
my  Quaker  connections  were  discovered ;  even  the 
usual  fee  being  remitted. 

I  visited  the  sanctum  of  the  Muenchner  Neiiste 
Nachrichten,  in  pre-war  days  the  most  liberal 
newspaper  in  Bavaria.  The  building  is  an  archi- 
tectural gem,  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  near-by 
Rathhaiis.  In  an  interview  with  the  editor-in- 
chief  I  realized  how  badly  demoralized  are  the 
German  mind  and  heart  and  vision.  He  talked 
wildly  about  the  past— the  dead  Irredeemable 
past.  The  future  he  saw  gray,  tinged  by  stormy 
red;  for  in  Munich,  Bolshevism  is  more  than  a 
spectre.  I  spent  three  hours  trying  to  calm  the 
man,  only  to  find  that  he  is  a  sick  man.  His 
malady  is  a  sort  of  sleeping  sickness,  which  stupe- 
fies if  it  does  not  kill,  and  it  is  a  prevailing  malady 
among  Germany's  leading  men. 

He  Introduced  me  to  the  editor  of  their  foreign 
news,  a  former  admiral  of  the  German  Fleet.  He 
knew  as  much   about  conditions   abroad  as  one 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  HILLS  77 

might  expect  from  an  admiral  who  has  sailed  the 
oceans  in  an  iron-clad  tub,  and  knows  foreign 
countries  only  from  their  harbours.  He  was  nat- 
urally stupid,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
the  readers  of  the  Neuste  Nachrichtcn,  whose  for- 
eign news  is  edited  by  such  a  man. 

His  hopes  for  the  future  good  relationship  be- 
tween Germany  and  the  United  States  were 
based  upon  the  German- American  Alliance;  for 
he  does  not  know  that  this  Beer  Camarilla  has  as 
much  political  influence  as  Bevo  has  alcoholic 
content. 

I  met  not  only  the  most  insane  but  also  the 
sanest  Bavarians,  and  chief  among  them.  Prof. 
Frederick  W.  Foerster,  of  the  University  of  Mu- 
nich, now  at  Luzerne.  I  spent  two  hours,  quiet 
inspiring  hours,  with  him.  He  was  the  one  great 
man  in  Germany  who  condemned  the  invasion  of 
Belgium  and  the  sinking  of  the  Litsitania. 

As  nearly  all  the  people  I  met  gave  me  the  im- 
pression of  confused,  guilty  men,  trying  to  justify 
themselves,  so  I  received  from  him  the  impression 
of  a  man  of  absolute  probity.  He  reminds  one  of 
Tolstoy,  though  he  is  gentler,  and  his  blue  eyes 
are  kindlier;  but  he  puts  the  same  insistence  upon 
salvation  through  the  words  of  Jesus,  upon  the 
condemnation  of  war,  and  of  patriotism  as  the  su- 
preme virtue,  and  of  brutal  exploitation  of  the 
poor.  He  is  convinced  of  the  guilt  of  Germany, 
and  believes  in  her  redemption  through  suffering. 


78        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

His  hold  upon  the  masses  is  remarkable,  and  to 
that  he  owes  the  fact  that  he  could  preach  and 
teach  his  doctrines  during  the  war.  He  delivered 
his  lectures,  protected  by  his  students,  while  his 
lecture  room  was  being  stormed  by  "  blind  pa- 
triots." The  reaction  at  the  present  time,  how- 
ever, made  his  work  so  difficult  that  he  thought 
it  wisest  to  retire  to  Switzerland,  where  he  is  writ- 
ing, and  waiting  in  the  quietness  and  confidence 
of  those  "  whose  trust  is  in  the  Lord." 

I  have  met  sane  women  in  Munich,  women  who 
show  and  confess  the  impress  of  Jane  Addams. 
They  see  the  salvation  of  Germany  in  confession 
and  cleansing,  and  struggle  politically  for  a  de- 
mocracy which  is  both  safe  and  efficient.  They 
are  a  growing  minority,  and  are  the  hope  of  their 
country. 

If  you  know  Munich,  the  Koenig's  Plat::;  is  fa- 
miliar to  you,  with  the  King's  Palace  facing  it ;  a 
quiet,  homely,  old-fashioned  sort  of  place,  at 
which  you  looked  with  some  awe.  A  company  of 
soldiers  used  to  guard  it  and  you  pitied  the  two 
who  constantly  walked  up  and  down  by  the  huge 
gateway.  For  hundreds  of  years  Bavarian  sol- 
diers have  trod  those  stones,  and  have  worn  deep 
grooves  into  them.  The  grooves  are  still  there, 
but  the  guards  are  gone,  and  I  entered  the  King's 
palace  without  knocking,  for  it  has  been  given 
over  to  the  Quakers.  Verily,  "The  meek  shall 
inherit  the  earth." 


THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  HILLS  79 

An  American  Quaker  sits  before  a  gold-and- 
ivory  desk,  directing  tlie  feeding  of  Bavaria's  un- 
dernourished children.  Seeing  this  act  of  mercy 
gave  me  my  first  thrill.  A  Bavarian  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  former  university  professor,  was 
my  guide — a  charming  girl,  who  told  me  of  the 
privations  during  those  dreary  two  winters,  when 
the  diet  was  beets,  and  not  much  else. 

We  went  to  inspect  the  kitchens,  and  I  noticed 
that  it  took  nearly  a  plateful  of  beans  to  convince 
her  that  they  were  well  cooked,  and  a  whole  cup 
of  cocoa  to  judge  if  it  was  properly  sweetened. 
A  four-years'  hunger  is  not  easily  appeased. 

Those  four  years  of  hunger  were  desperately 
hard  on  the  aged,  and  many  of  them  died  of  star- 
vation. They  were  harder  on  the  middle-aged 
who  survive  in  a  sort  of  sleepy,  inanimate  way; 
but  they  were  hardest  on  the  children.  I  shall 
never  forget  my  first  sight  of  these  infant  war 
cripples,  these  war  veterans  of  the  cradles,  with 
their  crooked  legs  and  sunken  eyes;  their  large 
heads  and  narrow  chests.  I  have  seen  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  them  since,  worse  even  than 
those — a  hospital  full  of  them,  yes  literally  "  the 
woods  are  full "  of  ricketty  and  tubercular  chil- 
dren. 

One  grows  used  to  even  such  terrible  sights ;  but 
when  I  saw  them  for  the  first  time  in  Munich,  I 
swore  an  unholy  oath,  I  felt  like  running  up  and 
down  the  streets,  damning  war  and  calling  upon 


80        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

the  fools  of  scientists  to  come  and  see  how  war 
"  improves  the  race." 

Some  day — the  Day  of  Judgment  I  am  sure — 
these  milHons  of  crippled  and  underfed  children 
will  be  God's  witnesses  against  the  war-makers. 

It  was  one  of  the  saddest  days  of  my  life,  and 
when,  after  seeing  all  this  human  wreckage,  I 
stepped  into  the  street  car,  I  was  raging.  Then 
some  one  called  my  name,  and  I  looked  into  the 
smiling,  beautiful  face  of  Marie  Mayer  (now  Mrs. 
Lothar  Becker),  the  Magdalene  of  the  last  Pas- 
sion Play  of  Oberammergau.  She  is  now  an 
American,  a  burningly  enthusiastic  American, 
and  her  sublime  faith  and  courage  saved  the  rest 
of  the  day  for  me. 

We  talked  about  Chicago  where  she  lives,  and 
which  she  loves,  and  one  must  be  a  thorough 
American,  indeed,  to  love  Chicago.  We  talked 
about  the  years  of  the  war,  how  hard  they  were 
for  those  of  us  whose  vision  and  hope  were 
blighted;  and  of  these  dreadful  days  of  so-called 
peace. 

I  felt  that  after  all,  the  Oberammergau  Passion 
Play  was  more  than  a  theatrical  performance ;  for 
Marie  Mayer  had  really  sat  at  the  Saviour's  feet, 
and  had  carried  Into  her  life,  which  was  often  hard 
and  tragic,  a  devout,  strong  and  courageous  faith. 

She  has  brought  America  and  the  Kingdom  of 
God  close  together  for  me,  and  every  day,  as  for 
three  months  I  watched  the  feeding  of  children 


THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  HILLS  81 

through  Central  Europe,  I  thanked  God  for 
America  and  praised  Him  for  the  chance  He  gave 
us,  to  heal  what  the  war  had  hurt  so  cruelly. 

The  immediate  future  of  Bavaria  is  dark;  she 
is  full  of  fear,  and  her  little  children  are  being 
poisoned  by  the  prevailing  mental  disease.  The 
bright  spots  are  few:  chiefly  a  small  group  of 
honest,  intelligent  men  under  the  leadership  of 
Foerster,  a  larger  number  of  liberal-minded 
women,  training  themselves  for  the  task  of  guid- 
ing others,  and  in  no  small  degree  the  fact  that 
calm,  sweet-spirited  Quakers  are  feeding  the 
starving  children,  and  are  heaping  "  coals  of  fire  " 
or  rather  hot  cocoa — and  beans,  upon  the  heads  of 
our  enemies. 

As  Professor  Becker,  the  head  of  the  Student 
Social  Service  Department,  told  me:  "  The  one 
bright  spot  in  our  dark  times  is  the  work  and  the 
spirit  of  the  Quakers.  They  came  and  gave  food 
and  themselves;  they  asked  no  questions  and  ped- 
dled no  opinions. 

"  I  am  a  convinced  Roman  Catholic,  and  I  will 
die  one,  but  I  am  conquered  by  the  Quaker  spirit, 
and  I  am  not  the  only  one !  " 

We  walked  together  through  the  old  picturesque 
part  of  Munich  and  talked ;  we  were  both  in  spir- 
itual agony.  Then  we  saw  from  afar  the  outlines 
of  the  mountains,  and  he  said:  "  I  will  lift  up  mine 
eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh  my  help." 

And  I  said  "  Amen." 


IX 

THE  GRAY  DAWN 

GERMANY  is  like  a  starched  collar  on  the 
neck  of  a  perspiring  man.  The  shape  is 
there,  though  much  shrunken  at  the 
edges:  Alsace-Lorraine,  Posnania,  a  part  of  East- 
ern Prussia  and  a  good  part  of  Northern  Germany- 
are  gone — the  rest  has  the  starch  soaked  out  of  it. 

The  conductors,  the  brakemen,  the  waiters; 
even  the  muddy  coffee  and  wrinkled  sausages 
served  at  the  station  without  the  customary  rolls, 
all  testify  that  the  old  system  is  dead. 

The  people  are  ruling — "  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,"  in  the  people's  confused 
way.  I  realized  it  as  I  travelled  through  Bavaria 
into  Saxony,  and  through  Prussia  into  Berlin. 
There  were  harassing  delays  on  account  of  com- 
munistic plots,  derailed  trains  lay  beside  the  track, 
and  the  city  of  Halle,  a  large  industrial  centre, 
was  in  a  state  of  siege.  Something  like  a  civil 
war  prevailed;  now  under  cover,  now  breaking 
into  flame.  They  call  it  a  ''  putch,"  and  Germany 
is  in  the  "  putch." 

The  old  system  is  dead,  and  the  new  system  is 
not  working  smoothly;  perhaps  never  will.     The 

82 


THE  GRAY  DAWN  83 

old  system  had  the  support  of  nearly  the  whole 
of  Germany,  with  but  small  opposition.  The  new 
system  has  but  little  support  and  large  opposition. 
At  every  unusual  stoppage  of  the  government  ma- 
chinery, one  hears  some  one  exulting,  some  one 
sighing  for  the  good  old  times,  some  one  invoking 
the  old  Gott,  the  old  system  and  the  Hohenzol- 
lerns. 

It  was  a  great  system  which  held  seventy  mil- 
lions of  people  as  in  a  vise,  but  comfortable  and 
proud,  like  a  big  family  all  crowded  into  one  pew 
on  a  hot,  summer  Sunday.  There  were  fine 
clothes,  bright  clothes,  mostly  uniforms;  every  one 
keeping  step.  "Left,  Right!  Left,  Right!" 
Every  man  in  his  place,  and  all  eyes  fixed  on  the 
Kaiser. 

The  poet,  the  preacher,  the  banker,  the  ship- 
builder, the  peasant  and  the  cobbler,  looked  up  to 
him,  for  he  was  the  head  of  the  system,  and  noth- 
ing could  go  wrong  with  that. 

The  new  system  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
proud  building  long  ago,  and  Bismarck  said: 
"  Come  in,"  just  in  the  same  friendly  way  that  a 
lion  admits  a  lamb  into  his  system.  Everything 
was  grist  to  Bismarck's  mill,  and  he  ground  up  the 
new  social  system  into  fine  meal,  and  fed  it  to  the 
old  system,  and  it  grew  very  sleek  and  fat  on  the 
Bismarckian  diet. 

The  old  Emperor  grew  more  benign  under  it 
and  Prussia  and  the  Prussians  more  prosperous 


84        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

and  arrogant,  and  the  young  Crown  Prince  waited 
impatiently  for  his  turn  at  the  head  of  the  system. 

"A  young,  Hvely,  sparkHng  youth,  hard  to  con- 
trol," his  teacher,  Hinzpeter,  confesses,  'and  the 
military  Camarilla,  which  knew  that  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time  when  he  would  be  Emperor,  sur- 
rounded him,  flattered  him,  and  taught  him  how  to 
sow  his  wild  oats  military  fashion ;  how  to  break 
champagne  glasses  against  mirrors,  against  crystal 
chandeliers,  and  against  fluttering  little  hearts  of 
flattered  barmaids  and  ballet  dancers.  He  mar- 
ried a  sedate  Princess,  who  was  content  to  preside 
over  the  three  K's,  "  Kirche,  Kiieche,  und  Kinder/' 
The  fourth  K,  her  Kronprinz  soon  to  be  the 
Kaiser,  no  one  could  control. 

"  When  I  am  Emperor,"  he  said  to  the  Cam- 
arilla, "the  world  will  know  that  a  genius  is  ruling, 
and  Germany  shall  be  great  with  the  greatness  of 
ancient  empires. 

"  I  shall  rule  in  politics,  commerce,  music  and 
art.  But  first  I  must  get  rid  of  this  old,  gray 
watch-dog,  Bismarck,  who  thinks  he  is  the 
Emperor," 

Wilhelm  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  realization 
of  his  dreams.  He  became  Emperor  at  thirty,  a 
youthful  ruler,  "  to  whom  the  world,"  says  a 
German  author,  "  was  like  a  merry-go-round,  and 
he  in  the  centre,  making  it  go."  The  diseased  ego 
in  him  was  always  eager  to  show  off,  always 
studying  new  effects,  never  happy  unless  he  was 


THE  GRAY  DAWN  85 

the  chief  topic  of  conversation  in  the  beer-halls, 
churches,  universities,  everywhere.  Bismarck 
said  he  was  "  a  man  who  wanted  to  celebrate  a 
birthday  every  day." 

Gray-headed  generals  began  bowing  and  scrap- 
ing, and  kissing  his  hand,  and  he  showered  them 
with  decorations  atid  titles.  Like  a  Jove  from 
the  clouds,  he  made  speeches,  declaring  his  people 
subjects,  and  himself  the  supreme  ruler,  account- 
able to  no  one  but  to  God.  That  was  true;  for 
Bismarck,  who  had  built  the  system  with  "  blood 
and  iron"  (rivers  of  blood  and  mountains  of 
iron),  and  made  his  grandfather  (who  had  the 
genius  of  a  corporal)  Emperor  of  Germany — 
Bismarck  had  been  hurled  from  his  pedestal,  and 
the  thud  of  his  fall  echoed  through  the  world. 

Wilhelm's  Gott  remained  invisible,  and  because 
he  could  not  pin  decorations  on  the  coat  of  the 
Almighty  he  built  Him  churches,  and  graciously 
made  Jehovah's  quarrel  with  the  Amalekites  his 
own — the  Amalekites  being  the  Chinese  who  op- 
posed Germanic  Israel  which  came  with  trade, 
Kultur  and  religion.  As  Moses  held  high  his 
hands  until  Amalek  was  beaten,  so  the  Kaiser 
would  pray  till  the  German  soldiers  should  return 
from  Asia — victorious. 

No  doubt  he  prayed — fourteen  years  later  he 
also  prayed.  He  prayed  all  through  the  war;  but 
God  remained  invisible  and  silent,  and  Germany 
was  beaten  into  the  dust. 


86        OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

"  I  did  not  want  the  war,"  he  said,  and  most 
people  believe  he  was  sincere.  "  For  that,"  says 
the  German  writer  already  quoted,  "  he  was  too 
weak.  He  had  no  iron  will,  no  energy  for  such  a 
deed;  his  power  lay  in  his  talking.  He  was 
crushed  by  the  shadows  of  Hindenburg  and  Lu- 
dendorf,  of  Von  Tirpitz  and  the  Junkers. 

"  Now  when  it  was  a  question  of  action,  not  of 
speech,  when  he  might  have  been  the  great  leader 
of  his  people  which  he  always  pretended  he  was, 
he  proved  to  be  a  small,  helpless  man — a  comedian 
whose  make-up  melted  in  the  light  of  the  glaring 
sun." 

On  the  ninth  of  November,  1918,  the  old  sys- 
tem crumbled.  The  new  system  was  already  at 
work  in  Berlin.  A  telephone  bell  in  the  palace 
rang.  "Has  his  Majesty  not  abdicated  yet?" 
"  No." 

"  Very  well,  then  we  will  do  it  for  him." 

At  five  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  ex-Em- 
peror, with  his  diminished  entourage,  made  his  last 
journey  through  Germany  toward  the  Dutch  bor- 
der. There  were  no  flags  and  no  garlands;  no 
huzzas  were  heard,  no  national  anthems  were  sung 
and  no  one  strewed  flowers  in  his  path.  In  the 
dark  and  in  the  fog,  he  ran  away,  like  a  deserter. 

Under  the  old  system  when  I  arrived  at  the  An- 
halter  Bahnhof,  there  stood  a  helmeted  and  white- 
gloved  policeman,  who  handed  me  a  brass  check 
which  established  my  place  in  the  line  of  patient 


THE  GEAY  DAWN  87 

travellers,  waiting  for  a  cab.  The  cab  was  clean, 
the  high  hat  of  the  driver  was  of  patent  leather 
and  shining,  the  Lcipciger  Strasse  through  which 
we  drove  was  brilliantly  illumined,  and  electric 
signs  performed  their  gymnastics  and  advertised 
cham.pagne  and  other  luxuries.  This  time  there 
was  no  crowd,  no  policeman ;  the  cab  and  the  horse 
looked  battered  and  weather-worn;  cabby's  hat 
had  lost  its  lustre,  quite  as  much  as  the  L,eipziger 
Strasse  and  the  Hohenzollerns. 

"  Untcr  den  Linden  "  looks  shabby  now.  (Per- 
haps I  am  comparing  it  with  Fifth  Avenue,  and 
not  with  its  own  glorious  past.)  All  its  architec- 
tural monstrosities  seem  doubly  discordant;  the 
Dom  Kirche  looks  like  a  wedding  cake  at  a  fu- 
neral; the  series  of  statues  on  the  bridge  leading 
to  the  Schloss,  and  representing  the  making  of  a 
warrior,  are  in  the  poorest  taste,  and  the  big 
Kaiser  Wilhehn  Denkmal  is  a  German  atrocity. 
With  Kaiser  Wilhelm  II  on  the  throne,  these 
things  harmonized;  they  now  offend  the  eye. 
They  were  a  part  of  him,  they  emanated  from 
him. 

I  visited  the  New  University  Library.  My 
companion,  a  disillusioned  professor,  pointed  to 
the  baroque  curves  and  heavy-limbed  gods,  the 
gilded  crowns  and  the  spreading  initials  of  Wil- 
helm guarding  its  portals,  and  he  said:  "This  is 
what  deceived  us.  We  thought  we  were  some- 
bodv,  and  we  discovered  that  we  were  nobody." 


88        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

The  Priedrich  Strasse,  which  was  never  a  road 
to  Paradise,  has  become  a  sewer  in  Sodom. 
Around  the  Bahnhof  is  a  clustering  Coney  Island. 
One  sees  open  gambling,  an  unashamed  woman- 
market,  foul  pictures  and  fouler  print  offered  for 
sale;  the  pellets  of  saccharin  which  are  served  in 
the  coffee  houses  cannot  sweeten  the  cup  of  worm- 
wood which  the  Berlinese  is  asked  to  drink,  and 
the  liqueurs  served  in  grotesque  cabarets  are  as 
deadening  myrrh. 

The  market-halls  have  been  turned  into  soup 
kitchens  where  the  children  of  the  half-starved 
poor,  the  university  students,  expectant  mothers, 
aind  new-born  infants  are  kept  alive,  being  fed 
with  Quaker  food,  by  the  grace  of  the  American 
people.  Berlin  is  vocal  from  the  crunching  of 
stale  Brotchen.  At  the  University,  the  Philhar- 
monic, the  opera,  the  church  and  the  banks,  bitter 
war-bread  is  being  eaten  "  in  season  and  out  of 
season,"  and  the  nouveau  riche  eat  the  delicacies, 
drink  expensive  wines,  and  occupy  the  choice  seats 
at  concerts  and  theatres. 

The  red  flag  makes  a  lurid  background  to  the  in- 
sistent black  and  white  of  the  Prussian.  Com- 
munistic literature  is  peddled  openly,  poverty,  once 
restrained  and  decent,  has  become  insistent.  War 
cripples  sit  on  the  sidewalks  exposing  their 
maimed  limbs,  and  gassed  soldiers  writhe  and 
twitch  to  arouse  pity,  and  lure  from  the  passers-by 
the  depreciated  mark. 


THE  GEAY  DAWN  89 

Under  the  old  system,  the  mighty  were  unap- 
proachable; they  barked  their  commands  at  their 
underlings,  and  those  who  wore  no  uniform  were 
anathema;  now,  Samson  has  been  shorn  of  his 
locks,  and  he  says:  "  Bitte  "  and  "  Danke  schoen  " 
and  is  straining  his  weakened  muscles  against  the 
pillars  of  the  young  republic.  The  civil  servants, 
once  the  pride  of  Germany,  are  struggling  be- 
tween ingrained  honesty  and  the  falling  value  of 
the  mark,  and  they  yield  to  temptation;  for  they 
are  human. 

Politics  is  putting  its  greedy  fingers  on  char- 
itable institutions,  on  the  schools  and  on  business; 
parties  are  splitting  into  new  factions,  the  Allies 
are  moving  their  soldiers  beyond  the  Rhine,  and 
the  German  "  will  to  power  "  is  paralyzed. 

The  past  lies  heavy  upon  the  spirit  of  the  Ber- 
linese.  A  few,  a  very  few,  are  repentant,  and  call 
upon  the  people  to  free  themselves  from  guilt  by 
repentance.  But  their  voices  are  drowned  in  a 
stormy  protest,  and  they  are  called  the  "new 
traitors." 

A  year  ago  they  could  say  it  openly  and  many 
repeated  with  them  "  mca  culpa."  Now  the  reply 
is:  "  We  are  sinners,  but  our  sins  were  those  of  an 
age,  of  a  world  policy,  of  a  competitive  struggle 
for  dominion." 

A  larger  number  admits  a  greater  share  of  guilt 
in  Gennany  through  an  unnecessary  provocation, 
an  unrestrained,   open  worship  of  the  "golden 


90        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

calf,"  dumb  devotion  to  the  nation  and  an  unparal- 
leled cult  of  militarism. 

Many, — one  knows  not  how  many, — are  wait- 
ing for  another  "Tag."  "In  the  Schloss/'  they 
say,  "  a  new  Kriegs  Herr  will  lodge.  ...  In 
twenty-five,  fifty,  a  hundred  years  he  will  lead 
out  another  army,  weaponed  with  the  might 
of  hate  and  hurled  forth  by  the  spirit  of  venge- 
ance. 

*'  We  must  teach  our  children  that  we  were  be- 
trayed by  words  and  not  conquered  by  arms,  that 
we  were  humiliated  and  starved  by  our  merciless 
enemies;  we  must  train  them  for  vengeance." 
One  hears  that  with  ascending  emphasis,  and  it 
will  become  the  belief  in  Germany  unless  justice  is 
tempered  by  mercy  and  good-will. 

The  University  of  Berlin  has  grown  reaction- 
ary, and  the  older  men  have  lost  faith  in  the  fu- 
ture, standing  as  they  are  in  the  midst  of  chaos. 
American  anthropological  scholars  know  the 
founder  and  curator  of  the  Natiir  Wissenshaft- 
liche  Museum,  Professor  Von  Luschati — a  genial, 
sunny  soul,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  most  of  his 
life  has  been  spent  digging  for  skulls,  of  which  he 
has  secured  and  accumulated  some  ten  thousand. 
He  was  always  gracious,  and  now  is  more  so,  mel- 
lowed by  misfortune.  He  led  me  through  Asia 
and  Africa,  the  latter  his  especial  pride.  He 
showed  me  Negro  sculpture  and  bronze  castings, 
and  then,  step  by  step,  through  his  discovery  that 


THE  GRAY  DAWN  91 

the  use  of  Iron  came  from  Negro  Africa  into 
Egypt. 

We  walked  for  two  hours  through  the  loot  from 
ancient  civilizations,  which  once  were  Babylon  and 
Tyre.  Then  came  his  "  swan  song  "  for  the  de- 
parted glory  of  scientific  Germany.  "  Now  law- 
yers and  saddlers  rule  the  country.  They  have  no 
regard  for  culture."  His  collection  of  skulls  has 
been  bought  by  America,  his  library  is  being  scat- 
tered; in  a  year  he  must  retire,  because  of  a  new 
law  which  sets  the  time  for  retirement  at  sixty- 
eight  years.    Then — he  will  go  to  Hawaii. 

He  loved  the  Fatherland,  but  that  love  has  been 
killed  and  he  will  die  in  exile.  As  he  escorted  me 
to  the  street,  past  the  golden  Buddha  and  the  Bulls 
of  Bashan  I  tried  to  console  him  by  saying  that 
though  everything  perishes,  the  spirit  surv^ives. 
That  seemed  to  be  of  no  comfort ;  but  I  brought  a 
smile  to  his  face  when  I  promised  him  a  sack  of 
American  flour,  and  I  trust  that  his  Easter  morn- 
ing was  a  little  more  glorious  to  him  because  he 
could  have  white  rolls  with  his  coffee. 

In  Berlin  Northeast,  the  workers'  quarter,  one 
sees  the  gray  faces  of  men  and  women,  the  opaque 
pallor  of  little  children,  shirtless  backs  and  shoe- 
less feet.  There  the  terror  of  the  past  years  tells 
its  full  story;  there,  hope,  if  she  lifts  herself  at  all 
above  the  vision  of  a  full  stomach,  rests  upon  the 
proletarian  revolution. 

I  heard  one  man  speak  in  a  crowded  hall.     He 


92        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

hobbled  to  the  platform  on  one  leg,  and  as  his  pas- 
sion kindled  in  speaking,  the  stub  of  his  right  arm 
moved  like  the  bobbed  tail  of  an  angry  dog;  his 
soldier's  coat  was  patched  and  repatched,  and 
looked  like  a  map  of  the  war  zone. 

"  This  they  have  made  of  me ! "  he  cried. 
"  The  war  lords,  the  profiteers !  They  have  saved 
their  limbs  and  grown  fat  and  rich,  and  ride  in  au- 
tomobiles, and  we  are  beggars !  Our  children  have 
to  be  fed  by  the  Quakers ! 

"  Don't  be  caught  in  the  net  made  by  their  old 
flags!  They  are  no  better  than  the  French  and 
the  English ;  they  are  of  the  same  class  and  we  are 
their  victims ! 

"Down  with  Capitalism!  If  we  workers  have 
our  way  there  will  be  no  war  lord  in  the  Schloss. 
Some  other  master  of  our  own  electing  will  rule ! 

"  Workers  of  the  world,  unite !  You  have 
nothing  to  lose  but  your  chains !  " 

In  spite  of  misery,  crime  and  rebellion,  I  found 
many  pleasing  and  hopeful  pictures  in  the  drear 
gray  of  Berlin.  Germans,  cooperating  with  Amer- 
ican and  English  Quakers  in  saving  the  children, 
are  being  mellowed  by  the  contact  with  these  gen- 
tle folk,  and  are  learning  that  there  is  another 
force  other  than  brute  force.  They  feel  the  power 
of  conquering  love,  and  they  wonder  if  this  is  the 
long-denied  revelation  of  the  coming  Christ. 

I  shall  always  cherish  that  first  sight  of  the 
Quaker  workers  gathered  in  their  monthly  meet- 


THE  GKAY  DAWN  93 

ing  in  Berlin,  with  Alfred  Scattergood,  the  head  of 
the  mission,  presiding.  The  staff  calls  him  "  Pa." 
He  is  both  fatherly  and  masterly,  and  his  meek- 
ness is  not  weakness.  He  has  kindly  eyes,  a  firm 
chin  and  a  well  modelled  face.  He  is  sparing  of 
words,  but  when  they  come,  they  are  clear  as  a 
bell. 

About  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  of  us  had  as- 
sembled to  hear  reports;  but  first  there  was  a  mel- 
low silence,  our  spirits  coming  close  to  each  other. 
So  graphic  were  the  reports  from  the  fields,  from 
Hamburg  to  Munich,  from  Kattowitz  to  Cologne, 
and  all  stations  in  between,  that  one  could  almost 
see  thousands  of  huge  boilers  being  stirred,  tens  of 
thousands  of  containers  of  cocoa,  beans,  and  por- 
ridge being  delivered  piping  hot,  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  loaves  of  bread  and  cinnamon  buns 
being  eaten  by  half  a  million  underfed  boys  and 
girls,  who  licked  half  a  million  spoons  clean,  and 
sent  half  a  million  "  thank  yous  "  toward  Amer- 
ica. 

Oh  America,  America!  You  may  see  the  sta- 
tistics ;  row  upon  row  of  clean,  typewritten  figures 
in  terms  of  pints  and  gallons,  and  meals,  and 
calories,  and  costs.  But  I  have  seen  the  children 
eating  your  soups  and  crunching  your  crusty  rolls, 
and  I  have  heard  them  say  in  chorus:  "America, 
we  thank  you !  " 

How  can  one  write  into  statistics  the  voices  of 
little  children,  or  tlieir  smiles?     And  above  all,  the 


94        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

sweet,  tender  faces  of  mothers  feeding  their  little 
ones,  with  never  a  spoonful  for  themselves;  for 
the  Quaker  food  is  for  the  children  only. 

The  Quakers  ought  to  arrange  a  travelling  ex- 
hibit to  go  through  the  United  States,  showing  the 
German  children's  gratitude  in  their  little  paint- 
ings and  verses,  embroideries  and  carvings.  That 
would  be  better  than  statistics,  though  the  statistics 
do  no  harm. 

After  our  business  meeting  the  Quakers  went  to 
the  Gntcnewald  for  their  evening  meal.  From 
the  railway  station  it  was  a  long  walk  in  the  sun- 
set, through  spindly,  well-trimmed  pines,  to  the 
Jacgerhaiis,  and  while  we  waited  for  our  supper 
we  sang  song  after  song;  merry  songs,  college 
songs,  Negro  tunes,  and  patriotic  airs.  After  the 
simplest,  plainest  meal,  I,  who,  when  I  left  the 
United  States,  thought  I  had  escaped  lecturing, 
was  asked  to  speak,  and  made  my  first  speech  in 
Germany. 

Gladly  I  spoke  to  them,  for  my  heart  was  full. 
All  the  way  and  everywhere,  I  had  heard  the  word 
"  Quakers  "  held  in  esteem,  and  America  glorified 
through  them.  They  are  healing  the  wounds  of 
war,  the  wounds  that  most  need  healing;  not  only 
in  the  bodies  but  In  the  minds  of  the  children  of 
Germany. 

"Tell  us,"  writes  Wilhelm  Schaefer,  one  of 
Germany's  great  poets,  in  the  Frankfurter  Zei- 
iung,  "whether  this  is  He,  or  whether  we  must 


THE  GRAY  DAWN  96 

wait  for  another?"  And  longingly  he  stretches 
out  his  hands  to  these  Christians,  who  want  noth- 
ing in  return  for  their  labours,  not  even  converts 
to  their  sect;  only  an  increase  in  good-will. 

Germany  appreciates  the  Quakers,  not  only  be- 
cause they  bring  food,  but  because  she  has  the 
spiritual  capacity  to  understand  them.  Germany 
is  not  only  the  home  of  the  Reformation  but  the 
birthplace  of  a  fine  Christian  mysticism,  and  the 
Quakers'  spirit  is  not  an  alien  on  German  soil. 

There  is  a  stir,  a  spiritual  turmoil  moving 
through  the  Vaterland.  The  young  men  and 
women  have  felt  it,  and  are  striving  for  a  simpler 
life,  saner  living,  a  finer,  spiritual  culture.  They 
are  known  as  "  Jung  Deutschland  "  and  are  organ- 
ized into  various  groups,  some  of  which  are  dis- 
tinctly religious,  while  others  turn  to  nature  for 
inspiration.  All  of  them  are  radical  in  their  de- 
sire to  help  create  a  new  Germany.  I  learned  to 
know  best  a  group  called  "  Das  Ncue  Wcrk.'* 
They  have  turned  to  art,  labour,  and  prayer;  to 
wholesome,  simple  living;  and  they  express  them- 
selves in  books  and  pamphlets,  disseminating,  not 
a  new  faith,  but  an  old  faith  with  a  new  ardour. 
In  the  defeated  Germany  I  have  seen  them  eager 
for  the  "Bread  of  Life,"  and  I  could  hear  "the 
Spirit  and  the  Bride  say:  Come." 


X 

SHIPS  AND  GUNS 

MY  usual  coming  into  Germany  was  by 
way  of  one  of  her  two  great  ports, 
Hamburg  or  Bremen;  aristocratic  cities 
in  a  commercial  way,  proud,  free  cities,  their  har- 
bours crowded  with  shipping,  the  jargons  and 
colours  of  the  whole  world  on  their  spacious 
docks,  and  the  sky  almost  obliterated  by  masts  and 
spars,  funnels  and  fluttering  flags. 

Coming  through  Europe,  these  ports  were  my 
objective  as  I  travelled  on  immigrant  trains,  and 
followed  the  never-ceasing  stream  of  humans  seek- 
ing a  sea-gate  to  America.  This  time  I  came  to 
Hamburg  from  the  east.  How  has  the  city  fared 
during  these  bottled-up  years?  What  is  left  of 
the  ancient  pride  ?  Is  the  sky  still  almost  obliter- 
ated by  masts  and  spars,  and  funnels  and  fluttering 
flags?  What  has  become  of  that  village  of  bar- 
racks, with  its  inns,  baths,  and  churches  for  the 
reception  of  the  immigrants? 

The  harbour  is  well-nigh  paralyzed — about  one- 
third  of  it  only,  showing  any  life.  Once,  or  at  the 
most,  twice  a  month,  a  ship  arrives  from  America, 
flying  an  English  or  an  American  flag.     The  vast 

96 


SHIPS  AND  GUNS  97 

warehouses  are  half-full  of  war  stuffs,  mostly  use- 
less, the  American  Relief  Association  filling  some 
of  them  with  packages  of  salvation,  such  as  bacon, 
oil,  beans,  cocoa  and  milk,  to  be  sent  to  all  parts 
of  Central  Europe. 

One  sees  hulls  of  half-grown  ships  in  no  hurry 
to  grow  up;  for  they  are  to  be  delivered  to  the 
Allies  when  finished.  Everywhere  there  are 
armed  guards,  and  barbed  wire  entanglements 
reach  far  into  the  city,  encircling  the  Rathaus; 
for  Hamburg  is  in  the  grip  of  a  Communistic 
"  putch,"  which  extends  through  the  whole  of  in- 
dustrial Germany. 

In  the  room  next  mine  there  were  revellers, 
drinking  and  singing — the  good  old-time  drinking 
and  singing.  I  complained  in  a  mild  sort  of  way 
to  the  clerk.  "  The  gentlemen  are  celebrating 
Easter,"  he  replied.  Yes,  it  was  Easter  Day;  but 
ho  church  bells  announced  it,  for  they  had  been 
melted  into  cannon  long  ago ;  there  was  tlie  "  tat, 
tat,  tat  "  of  a  machine  gun,  followed  by  answering 
pistol  shots.  Crowds  surged  through  the  streets, 
like  huge,  senseless  monsters,  conscious  of  an  un- 
appeased  hunger. 

"  Tat,  tat,  tat,"  a  hardly  perceptible  smoke,  and 
the  crowds  broke  up,  leaving  a  crooked  line  of 
wounded.  Ten,  twenty,  forty,  fifty  huddled  bun- 
dles of  lifeless  flesh.  Then  there  was  silence,  and 
my  neighbours  returned  to  their  cups. 

Those  Communists  nearly  spoiled  our 


<( 


98        OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Easter ! "  And  they  began  to  drink  and  sing 
where  they  had  left  off,  making  up  for  lost  time; 
while  I  vainly  tried  to  sleep. 

Indeed  it  was  a  spoiled  Easter,  with  a  raw  wind, 
a  blanket  of  fog,  no  Easter  bells  and  the  Easter 
rabbits  laying  but  few  eggs,  which  cost  five  marks 
apiece.  There  was  barbed  wire  for  Easter  deco- 
rations, and  for  Easter  music,  guns,  saying:  "tat, 
tat,  tat,"  and  then  a  week  of  Communist  funerals. 

I  have  friends  in  Hamburg  besides  the  Quakers, 
and  one  of  them  whom  I  called  upon  was  once  the 
Admiral  of  the  Hamburg-American  fleet.  A  fine 
old  sea-dog,  as  much  at  home  in  Hoboketi  as  in 
Hamburg,  squat  and  sinewy.  His  once  ruddy 
cheeks  are  now  pale,  and  his  hair  white.  Chained 
to  an  office  chair,  he  is  giving  advice  to  prospective 
immigrants.  We  talked  over  olden  times,  the  war, 
and  the  better  days  ahead,  far  away  as  yet,  with 
all  sorts  of  troubles  without  and  within. 

From  him  I  went  to  the  immigrant  village  at  the 
edge  of  the  city.  They  were  shrewd  business 
men,  were  Ballin  and  the  rest  of  them,  when  in- 
stead of  bare  barracks  they  built  a  picturesque  vil- 
lage, with  colourful  walls,  churches  for  all  faiths, 
restaurants  for  varied  tastes,  hotels  for  different 
kinds  of  pocketbooks,  and  a  brass  band  to  cheer 
everybody.  The  plan  worked  splendidly  and  paid 
good  dividends. 

Now  the  colour  has  gone  out  of  the  village, 
faded  away  with  the  hopes  of  victory.     It  was 


SHIPS  AND  GUNS  99 

used  as  a  military  hospital  during  the  war,  but  is 
again  an  Immigrant  Receiving  Station. 

There  are  scarcely  two  hundred  prospective 
steerage  passengers,  all  under  close  observation  for 
typhus;  while  once  the  place  housed  three  thou- 
sand, and  did  not  look  crowded.  Then,  there  was 
much  drinking  of  beer  and  wine,  and  much  eating 
of  pickles,  which  are  supposed  to  prevent  sea-sick- 
ness. On  the  day  of  sailing,  fifteen  hundred  to 
two  or  three  thousand  embarked  on  one  ship. 
Those  days  are  over.  The  immigrant  crop  is 
short,  will  be  shorter,  and  will  never  grow  again  as 
it  did. 

From  Hamburg  I  went  to  Essen,  which  is  the 
birthplace  of  the  "  Big  Bertha  "  and  all  "  her  sis- 
ters and  her  cousins  and  her  aunts."  Father  Iron 
and  Mother  Coal,  the  parents,  were  born,  "brought 
up  "  and  married  there,  Meistcr  Krupp  being  the 
priest  who  performed  the  ceremony.  Of  course 
other  things  were  born  there  too — pans  and  ket- 
tles, ingots  and  steel  girders,  and  a  very  fine  sys- 
tem of  housing,  and  caring  for  working  people. 

Hospitals,  recreation  halls,  and  homes  for  con- 
valescents interested  me  when  I  came  to  see  them 
some  ten  years  ago ;  not  the  guns  and  the  pots  and 
the  kettles. 

Then  Essen  was  black  and  heavy  from  sulphur 
fumes,  and  lighted  up  by  the  flare  of  open  hearths 
and  the  flow  of  molten  metal.  Endless  walls  shut 
in  the  huge  works,  and  through  the  great  gates, 


100      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

well  guarded,  tens  of  thousands  of  men  passed  to 
and  from  their  work. 

I  was  welcomed  then  to  see  the  good  works — 
but  not  the  evil.  A  guide  was  given  me  to  show, 
what  the  Krupps  were  doing  for  their  employees. 
I  saw  happy,  care-free  old  men  and  women,  in  pic- 
turesque cottages,  awaiting  their  release.  I  saw 
men  recovering  from  bruises  or  burns,  reclining 
in  easy  chairs  or  playing  games. 

There  were  working  men's  homes,  inspected  and 
controlled,  bronze  monuments  to  labour,  and  one 
to  the  "  dear  departed "  younger  Krupp,  whose 
end  was  veiled  in  mystery.  I  walked  and  talked, 
wearying  my  guide,  who  would  have  preferred  sit- 
ting in  some  inn,  drinking  a  glass  of  Krupp  beer 
(the  beer  was  also  benevolently  controlled). 

Now,  Essen  is  raw  and  cold,  the  hotel  is  un- 
heated,  the  streets  are  dimly  lighted,  the  flames 
flare  but  feebly ;  guns  and  cannon  are  being  broken 
into  junk,  and  locomotives  being  turned  out  by  the 
Krupps  at  the  rate  of  one  and  a  half  a  day — that 
is  when  there  is  no  strike,  or  when  the  Spartacists 
are  not  threatening  to  blow  up  the  landscape,  as 
they  did  the  day  I  was  there. 

The  walls  of  the  Krupp  works  and  walls  every- 
where are  plastered  with  placards,  red,  white  and 
pink — one  over  the  other.  Now  a  Communistic, 
then  a  Socialistic,  a  German  Nationalistic,  or  over 
them  all,  a  proclamation  by  the  burgomaster,  coun- 
selling against  more  than  two  people  being  to- 


SHIPS  AND  GUKS  101 

gether  on  the  streets,  and  prohibiting  all  public 
demonstrations. 

Ten  years  ago  hundreds  of  soldiers,  or  even 
thousands,  marching  down  the  streets  would  have 
created  no  sensation.  A  dozen  of  them  now, 
walking  as  slowly  as  a  funeral  procession,  com- 
mand every  one's  attention;  for  their  guns  mean 
real  business  and  their  belts  are  full  of  hand  gre- 
nades. The  day  before  my  arrival  they  killed 
thirty  people,  wounded  twice  as  many,  and  are 
ready  to  shoot  again. 

The  Kaiserhof  Hotel  was  new  to  me.  It  is  a 
gorgeous  hostelry  with  an  almost  American  lobby. 
A  group  of  American  relief  workers  sat  at  the  din- 
ner table  with  two  German  guests,  a  poet,  and  the 
city  physician,  the  latter  speaking  no  English. 

Edward  Moon,  the  head  of  the  Quaker  mission, 
speaks  a  fantastic  German.  He  is  indignant  (hu- 
morously so)  over  the  way  he  learned  his  college 
German.  "  Mein  teacher  taught  me  Wilhelm  Tell 
und  die  Lorelei,  und  ich  hahc  now  to  know  about 
Umsteigcn  and  Kochen  Beans,  and  I  learned  about 
comben  mein  golden  hair,"  he  said,  dramatically 
sweeping  his  hand  over  the  top  of  his  head,  which 
is  as  free  from  hair  as  his  heart  is  from  guile.  His 
wife  is  a  jewel,  a  Quaker  jewel,  and  we  all  got  on 
famously  with  the  poet  and  the  city  physician. 
Every  one  knows  that  the  Germans  are  thorough 
and  are  much  given  to  statistics;  but  the  physician 
admits  that  these  Americans  have  made  statistics 


102      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

intelligible,  and,  above  all  else,  have  centered  Ger- 
many's attention  on  her  children. 

The  offices  of  the  Quaker  Mission  in  the  KerOr- 
mik  House  are  typically  American,  with  their 
typewriters,  tabulating  machines,  mani folders,  and 
a  something  more  cheery  and  homelike,  and  mar- 
vellously human.  They  have  atmosphere,  a  new 
atmosphere  unknown  in  the  Bureaus  of  German 
Bureaucracy. 

I  visited  the  home  of  the  Moons,  on  the  Bis- 
marck Strasse.  The  widow  of  a  steel  master 
owns  it  and  lives  in  it,  in  harmonious  relationship 
with  these  Americans,  who  were  quartered  there 
by  the  law,  which  allows  just  so  many  rooms  to  a 
householder,  and  commandeers  all  surplus.  In 
this  home  there  are  thirteen  people  who  live  where 
one  old  couple  once  resided,  in  pompous  splendour. 
The  house  is  over-furnished,  and  smothered  in 
bric-a-brac  in  the  poorest  of  poor  taste.  I  have 
never  seen  such  poor  taste  in  America,  and  we 
have  sinned  grievously  in  that  direction.  There 
are  grotesque  vases,  impossible  furniture,  cabinets 
stuffed  full  of  knickknacks,  and  portraits  of  the 
Imperial  family!  For  the  old  lady  will  not  be 
weaned  from  her  loyalty  to  the  Hohenzollerns. 

I  also  visited  the  home  of  a  radical  miner  whom 
I  met  ten  years  before.  Then,  he  was  a  moderate 
Socialist,  now,  he  is  the  reddest  of  the  red. 
His  home  is  one  room  and  a  kitchen,  for  five  peo- 
ple.    His  noon  meal  was  a  slice  of  bread  with  a 


SHIPS  AND  GUNS  103 

very  thin  coating  of  lard  over  it,  a  plate  of  pota- 
toes and  cabbage  mixed,  and  a  weak  brew  of  coffee 
without  sugar  or  milk.  Upon  that  he  has  to  sub- 
sist, working  eight  hours  a  day  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth.     For  what  ?     For  whom  ? 

If  the  home  had  been  dirty  and  the  children  had 
been  in  rags;  if  they  had  begged  for  money  or 
bread,  it  would  not  have  been  half  so  pathetic  as  it 
was,  with  the  rooms  sweet  smelling,  the  children's 
threadbare  clothes  clean  and  neatly  patched,  the 
wife's  face  a  marble  pallor,  like  that  of  a  suffering 
Madonna.  The  man  is  a  burning  torch,  ready  to 
consume  or  be  consumed.  I  could  not  stay  long, 
hardly  fifteen  minutes,  the  room  was  so  tragically 
chilly,  like  a  tomb,  in  which  living  beings  had  been 
immured. 

"  I  may  die  to-morrow,"  the  husband  said.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  to  die ;  It  is  better  to  die  than  to  live." 

It  does  not  matter  what  one's  views  are  upon  the 
question  of  reparations.  When  they  are  paid,  it 
will  not  be  the  Krupps  who  will  feel  the  burden, 
or  the  steel  master's  widow  In  that  bourgeois 
home,  who  will  suffer.  They  will  be  provided 
for.  It  is  the  miners  and  the  melters  of  metal, 
who  are  now  living  at  the  edge  of  despair,  who 
will  be  crushed. 


XI 
SIN  AND  SACRIFICE 

I  WONDER  whether  the  city  fathers  of 
Frankfort -on -the -Main  dehberately  put 
their  war  memorial  opposite  the  Bismarck 
Statue — the  crushed  figure  of  a  woman,  every  line 
crying  out  in  grief,  even  the  bare  breast?  If  they 
did  place  it  there  with  ynalice  prepense  did  they 
mean  to  point  a  moral?  The  Bismarck  statue 
shows  him  leading  the  mounted  Germania.  She 
does  not  even  look  at  her  foes,  crushed  beneath 
the  horse's  feet;  but  gazes  far  out  into  the  il- 
limitable distance,  seeing  conquests,  colonies,  con- 
tinents— perhaps  the  world — to  be  ruled  by  her. 

A  few  yards  away,  now  stands  the  war  me- 
morial, a  pitiable,  weary,  drained,  sorrowful 
mother,  who  mourns  not  only  the  children  of 
her  womb,  lying  deep  in  the  dust  of  Belgium  and 
France, — not  only  the  squandered  wealth  of  the 
fathers,  the  health  of  infants,  the  mortgaged  fu- 
ture of  the  yet  unborn — she  mourns  her  fair 
name,  soiled  and  besmirched,  dragged  through  the 

deep  mire  of  history. 

104 


SIN  AND  SACRIFICE  106 

Are  the  city  fathers  reproaching  Bismarck  for 
his  policy  of  "  blood  and  iron,"  the  dominance  of 
Prussia,  the  rulership  of  the  Hohenzollerns  ?  Or 
do  they  mean  to  say:  "If  Bismarck  had  led 
Germania's  steed,  it  might  not  have  come  to  this  "  ? 

Upon  that  point  the  German  people  are  not 
agreed;  but  there  are  not  a  few  men  living  who 
foresaw  in  Bismarck's  policy  the  inevitable 
doom.  Baron  von  Putzkammcr,  himself  a  Prus- 
sian, said  in  the  spring  of  1915,  when  the  German 
offensive  was  checked,  and  victory  did  not  perch 
obediently  upon  the  German  banners — "  Finally, 
finally,  comes  the  judgment.  Now  the  sin  will  be 
atoned  for.  I  had  lost  faith  in  the  moral  code  of 
the  universe!  Praised  be  the  judgment  which  has 
come  upon  Prussianized  Germany!  There  will 
arise  out  of  it  the  Germany  of  old.  God  be 
praised ! 

"  The  work  of  blood  and  iron  is  being  des- 
troyed. So  it  had  to  come;  for  one  does  not  con- 
jure the  evil  spirits  for  fifty  years  for  nought! 
Now  Bismarck  has  come  to  his  end,  finally, 
finally !  " 

Finally,  yes,  finally,  Germania  is  checked  on  the 
bridgeheads  of  the  Rhine.  Whatever  sin  there 
was  in  the  Bismarck  policy,  here  is  the  penalty. 
"The  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  they  shall  not  have  it; 
the  German,  German  Rhine !  " 

The  Rhine  is  occupied,  and  bears  the  marks. 
A  proud,  haughtily  smiling  river,  it  is  more  than 


106      OLD  TEAIL9  AOT)  NEW  BOEDEES 

a  river,  it  is  a  stream  of  blood,  and  the  occupa- 
tion has  turned  the  corpuscles  from  red  to  pale 
white.  There  are  companies  of  soldiers  around 
stacked  arms,  the  noses  of  menacing  tanks  point- 
ing up  into  the  air,  machine  guns  with  lean  necks 
and  round  fat  stomachs;  then,  looming  up  sud- 
denly, like  two  hands  lifted  in  solemn  petition,  are 
the  towers  of  the  ''  Dom  of  Coin." 

In  the  "  good  old  days  "  Cologne  was  either  the 
beginning  or  the  end  of  the  Rhine  journey,  and 
the  Dom  was  the  objective.  Innumerable  throngs 
of  "  Cooky  "  tourists  looked  at  the  superb  cathe- 
dral, and  some  of  them  felt  the  power  of  every 
upreaching  turret.  Some  compared  its  height  to 
the  stand-pipe  or  some  other  tallest  thing  back  in 
their  booming  town  in  the  U.  S.  A.  None  could 
escape  the  holy  power  of  that  noble  interior,  and 
they  whispered  admiration  and  felt  the  worshipful 
mood. 

Now  the  Dom  seems  lost  to  view.  English 
Tommies  squat  on  the  steps,  one's  favourite  hotel 
has  been  commandeered  and  made  into  headquar- 
ters for  something;  another  and  another  has 
shared  the  same  fate,  showing  the  same  wear  and 
tear.  There  are  placards  in  English  commanding 
this  or  that  thing,  and  when  the  Tommies  read 
them  aloud,  one  stumbles  over  dropped  h's.  Such 
and  such  a  place  is  closed  to  civilians,  soldiers  are 
permitted  to  go  to  the  public  restaurants  until  the 
fantastic   hour   of   twenty-three;    so   that   magic 


SIN  AND  SACEIFICE  107 

number  comes  into  its  own  again.  (There  is  no 
A.  M.  or  p.  M.  in  the  EngHsh  zone.)  The  Enghsh 
officers  are  unmistakably  and  uncompromisingly 
English,  the  monocle  making  their  immobile  faces 
more  rigid. 

A  few  hours  of  daylight,  then  the  night,  a  new 
morning  and  after  a  short  railroad  journey  I  saw 
the  American  flag  floating  from  the  fortress  of 
Bhrcnbreitenstcin.  The  Vatcrland  is  a  little  rnhi- 
ger  where  the  Yanks  keep  "  Watch  on  the  Rhine  " 
— though  feverish  enough,  and  the  truth  of  it  even 
stranger  than  fiction !  Any  man  who  had  foretold 
this  ten  years  ago,  who  had  visioned  the  American 
flag  waving  from  the  Kaiser's  favourite  palace, 
and  Yankee  soldiers  spilled  all  over  the  streets  of 
Coblenz,  would  have  been  declared  a  lunatic. 

Friendly  boys  they  are,  young  boys  on  the 
whole,  these  Yankee  soldiers,  with  here  and  there 
a  toughened  specimen  of  the  regulars.  The  rest 
are  youngsters  upon  an  adventure,  doing  their 
time  without  much  else  on  their  minds  than  how 
many  marks  one  gets  for  a  dollar.  Yet  how 
quickly  they  go  in  spite  of  their  number,  because 
of  everlasting  thirst,  blue-eyed  frduleins  and  fickle 
fortune  at  cards. 

The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  keeps  brotherly  guard  over 
them — and  sisterly,  which  they  like  better.  There 
are  huts  everywhere,  from  Andernach  to  Biebrich ; 
cheerful  places  with  pictures,  flowers,  ham  sand- 
wiches,    ice-cream,     and     "  Oh     Lady !  —  Pie !  ** 


108      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

Young  women,  some  of  them  old  enough  to  be 
older  sisters,  keep  the  huts,  adorn  them,  sell  the 
goodies,  offer  good  advice  gratis,  and  make  these 
soldiers'  camps  as  sweet  and  attractive  as  only  one 
or  two  young  women,  resourceful  to  the  finger- 
tips, can. 

A  militarized  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretary  took  me  the 
rounds.  First  to  the  fortresses.  Fort  Roland, 
then  to  Bhrenhreitenstein.  Unchallenged,  our 
Ford  entered,  and  bumped  us  through  dark  tun- 
nels; huge  gates,  never  before  opened  to  sight-see- 
ing civilians,  swung  wide  upon  ugly  barracks,  sun- 
baked, empty  drill  grounds,  guard-houses  full  to 
overflowing,  and  in  a  labyrinth  of  walks  and  walls 
is  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut. 

The  *'  Y  "  girls  were  busy ;  it  was  pay-day  and 
heyday,  for  the  boys  spend  their  money  while  the 
sun  shines — also,  alas,  when  it  does  not  shine.  I 
saw  on  one  boy's  plate  two  ham  sandwiches,  two 
chocolate  sundaes,  three  pieces  of  pie  stacked  like 
pancakes ;  and  then  he  had  a  second  helping.  The 
boys  can't  be  homesick  at  Coblenz.  They  are  in 
America,  more  indeed  than  if  they  were  at  Yuma, 
or  in  some  other  hot  place  in  Arizona  or  New 
Mexico,  and  the  reason  is,  largely,  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
men,  and  especially  the  women. 

The  citizens  do  their  share  to  make  the  boys 
feel  at  home.  "  Come  in  and  get  a  genuine  boot- 
black," "  Bootblacking  done  in  all  colours," 
"  Mince  pies  that  mother  used  to  bake,"  "Amer- 


SIN  AND  SACRIFICE  109 

ican  money  changed  at  highest  rats.''  By  these 
and  other  signs  they  express  their  interest  in  the 
boys,  and  the  boys  reciprocate. 

On  pay-day  they  go  from  cafe  to  cafe.  They 
buy  everything,  from  Marizpan  cakes  to  bottles  of 
wine,  and  judging  by  the  unsteadiness  of  some  of 
them,  they  have  purchased  Cognac,  which  they 
pronounce  "  Kooneyack,"  and  which  the  law  pro- 
nounces "  dangerous  and  forbidden." 

The  great  "  Fest-Halle"  belongs  to  the  boys, 
and  nowhere  in  their  native  country  have  they  so 
fine  a  place  for  entertainment.  Boxing,  theat- 
ricals, concerts,  everything  is  theirs,  the  best  there 
is ;  yet  when  one  gets  beneath  the  surface,  one  sees 
that  they  also  get  the  worst  there  is — both  they 
and  the  people  of  the  occupied  area.  The  America 
they  bring  to  Coblenz  and  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lages is  hardly  fit  for  export,  and  an  army  of  oc- 
cupation is  rarely  a  cultural  agency.  The  ofiicers, 
even  the  militarized  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  are  forbidden 
fraternizing  with  the  native  population,  so  what- 
ever of  the  good  or  noble  we  have,  is  not  spread 
abroad;  while  the  vulgar  or  wicked  is  scattered 
broadcast. 

If  the  English  and  American  occupation  rests 
heavily  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  Rhine  region, 
what  is  to  be  said  of  the  pressure  of  grim,  French 
soldiers,  each  one  a  foe,  a  bitter  foe?  English  and 
American,  especially  American  soldiers,  meet 
their  kinsmen  in  these  Germans,  and  leave  them 


110      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

still  more  closely  related;  for  they  marry  German 
Frduleins,  and  the  Rhine  will  be  a  river-in-law  to 
thousands  of  our  soldiers.  But  the  French  sol- 
diers march  through  Mayence  and  Wiesbaden, 
their  heels  striking  the  pavement  hard,  as  if  to 
say:  "  You,  you  Germans  are  under  our  heels  and 
we  will  grind  you  to  powder." 

The  Colonials,  the  coloured  soldiers  of  France, 
look  worse  to  us  in  America,  with  our  colour- 
phobia,  than  they  do  to  the  Germans  upon 
whom  they  are  inflicted,  according  to  the  testi- 
mony of  the  Germans  in  the  occupied  region.  The 
coloured  soldiers  are  no  worse  than  the  white. 
They  are  only  different,  and  very  attractive  to  the 
white  women  there.  Mulatto  children  are  born  on 
the  Rhine,  and  the  head  nurse  of  the  Maternity 
Hospital  told  me  that  in  each  case  it  was  a  volun- 
tary surrender. 

The  editor  of  the  frankfurter  Zeitung,  a  man 
whose  vision  has  remained  refreshingly  clear,  told 
me  the  following:  During  the  brief  occupation  of 
Frankfort  by  the  French,  he,  as  a  newspaper  man, 
was  free  from  the  compulsion  of  being  indoors  at 
nine  o'clock  at  night.  Walking  through  the  de- 
serted street  one  night,  he  met  a  coloured  trooper 
and  said  to  him  in  French:  "  This  is  not  very'  ex- 
citing." To  which  the  man  replied:  "No, 
Monsieur,  it  is  not,  and  I  don't  want  excitement. 
I  want  to  go  home  to  my  people.  Perhaps  some 
day,  white  men  will  have  sense  enough  to  prevent 


SIN  AND  SACEIFICE  111 

such  a  calamity  as  this  war,  and  we  may  all  re- 
main at  home  and  eat  our  bread  in  peace." 

Perhaps  it  has  come  true  that  God  has  "  con- 
founded the  wise  and  prudent,"  and  that  "  out  of 
tlie  mouth  of  " — Colonials — who  are  but  "  babes 
and  sucklings,"  "  He  has  ordained  strength." 


XII 
FINIS  AUSTRIA 

ANIGHT  in  bed  is  time  lost  in  sleep,  a 
night  in  a  railway  station,  waiting  for  a 
train,  is  an  experience.  At  such  a  time 
life  assumes  a  strange  aspect.  From  eleven  p.  m.  to 
one  A.  M.  each  hour  has  one  hundred  and  twenty 
minutes;  after  that,  one  hundred  and  eighty. 
One's  body  has  at  least  eight  sides,  twice  as  many 
angles,  and  bones  are  discovered  where  none  were 
before.  Odours  become  so  distinct  that  they  as- 
sume individuality,  eight  minutes  of  sleep  do  as 
well  as  the  orthodox  eight  hours  spent  in  bed,  and 
a  cup  of  coffee  has  the  quickening  power  of  a 
hypodermic  injection. 

The  happy  moment  of  semi-unconsciousness 
had  come  to  me,  in  spite  of  scolding  barmaids  and 
crying  children,  the  snoring  drummer,  and  the 
boastful  immigrants  returning  from  America. 
An  occasional  switch  engine  and  the  ticking  tele- 
graph instruments  blended  Into  a  lullaby.  I  was 
being  rocked  to  sleep  by  invisible  hands,  when 
suddenly  I  became  aware  that  my  body  had  been 
cut  into  three  parts,  and  each  part  had  retained 
consciousness.  One  part  of  me  had  already  en- 
tered Austria,  after  a  long  parley  with  the  offi- 

112 


FINIS  AUSTRIA  113 

cials,  who  were  not  accustomed  to  grant  entry  to 
trunkless  heads.  My  legs  were  still  in  Germany, 
and  it  seemed  impossible  to  obtain  permission  to 
remove  them.  The  middle  of  me  had  sagged  be- 
tween the  two  countries,  and  was  not  particular 
where  it  went. 

Professor  Freud  certainly  would  have  found 
the  source  of  my  dream  in  "  suppressed  desires"; 
but  it  was  more  easily  explained.  I  had  gone  to 
sleep  on  three  chairs  in  the  railway  station  at 
Passau,  where  a  through  train  from  Frankfurt 
had  dropped  me,  refusing  to  go  further.  The 
chairs  had  accepted  the  doctrine  of  self-determina- 
tion and  were  drifting  apart. 

The  noises  began  to  be  distinct  again,  the 
odours  also;  I  heard  the  barking  of  a  dog,  and 
strange  yet  familiar  noises  and  odours  suddenly 
intruded  upon  the  first.  I  distinguished  the  smell 
of  Russian  sheepskin  coats  added  to  the  sweat  of 
ages,  odours  of  camels,  musty  oriental  rags,  cab- 
bage and  salted  fish — all  ineffectively  drowned  in 
carbolic  acid, 

I  felt  a  dog's  cold  nose  rubbing  my  face,  and 
opening  my  eyes  I  saw  a  huge,  gray  fur  cap,  a 
shaggy  sheepskin  coat,  and  a  beard  such  as  Rus- 
sians raise,  as  a  monument  to  their  spent  youth. 
Feverishly  glowing  eyes  were  looking  into  mine 
from  out  a  pale,  emaciated  face,  and  sensitive 
lips  were  smiling  at  my  having  slid  to  the  floor. 

I  became  aware  of  a  roar  of  voices,  such  as  I 


114      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

had  never  heard  before;  neither  human  nor  ani- 
mal, but  an  unhappy  combination  of  both.  I 
began  to  distinguish  speech:  German  in  various 
Austrian  dialects,  and  the  hard  Magyar,  children 
crying  in  Esperanto,  and  the  shrill  voices  of 
women,  scolding  in  Russian. 

"  We  are  war-prisoners  returning  from  the 
East,"  the  pale  face  spoke.  Then  as  men,  women 
and  children  came  pouring  into  the  room  and 
out  again  in  a  most  strange  and  uncanny  manner, 
I  began  slowly  to  realize  that  I  was  witnessing  one 
of  the  last,  long-delayed  phases  of  the  World 
War;  the  return  of  the  Austrian  prisoners,  who 
were  the  first  to  be  captured  and  the  last  to  be 
released.  This,  then,  was  the  last  page  of  the  last 
chapter:  Finis  Austria. 

This,  what  was  left  of  the  valiant  ones,  after 
typhus,  Kolchak,  Denikin,  Wrangle  and  the  Bol- 
sheviki  had  finished  with  them.  Eighteen  hun- 
dred bundles  of  skin  and  bone,  and  filthy  rags, 
bringing  home  Russian  women  and  half-breed 
children;  more  hungry  ones  to  stare  at  the  empty 
larder. 

What  a  sight  it  was !  No  nurses,  no  Red  Cross 
officials,  no  steaming  cups  of  coffee,  no  fluttering 
flags,  no  brass  bands.  Nothing  but  one  wretched 
train-load  after  another,  insupportable  delays,  and 
finally  home — if  home  there  was. 

This  was  the  end  of  dreams  of  Empire,  the 
result   of   Alliances,    and   the   plotting   of   Pan" 


FINIS  AUSTEIA  116 

Germanism;  of  conspiracies,  of  stupid  policies  by 
a  half-witted,  selfish  dynasty. 

We  talked  it  all  over,  the  pale-faced  one  and  I, 
as  we  drank  numerous  cups  of  hot  coffee;  he  in  a 
high-pitched,  nervous  voice  interrupted  by  a  rack- 
ing cough;  I,  awestruck  and  questioning. 
Strange  tales  he  told  of  hardships  and  long  wan- 
derings, of  unspeakable  cruelties  where  kindness 
was  to  be  expected,  and  of  unexpected  kindness 
where  none  was  hoped  for.  Of  bleak  camps,  and 
the  crowding  together  of  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  unfortunates;  of  human  greed,  of 
cruelty  among  those  who  had  already  suffered 
much.  Of  the  strong  oppressing  the  weak,  and 
the  shrewd,  exploiting  the  simple;  of  law  and 
order  created  by  circumstances,  and  of  the  beast 
in  man,  refusing  to  be  governed. 

He  had  been  all  but  dead,  the  pale-faced  one. 
He  knew  the  feeling  of  the  grave,  and  of  earth- 
worms eating  his  skin.  Then  the  touch  of  kind- 
ness warmed  him  back — a  dog — a  masterless, 
hungry  dog — the  dog  sitting  on  his  haunches  by 
us  as  we  talked,  looking  virtuous,  as  if  he  knew 
we  were  speaking  of  his  good  deed. 

So  the  pale  one  was  finally  brought  back — to 
what?  To  a  changed  world  in  which  he  was  a 
stranger,  not  knowing  of  what  country  he  was  a 
citizen,  with  no  news  from  home  for  years,  igno- 
rant of  what  desolation  might  await  him  there. 

Hundreds  like  him  crowded  the  station,  frag- 


116      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

ments  of  a  great  army,  fragments  of  an  Empire  in 
ruins,  fragments  of  human  beings  with  bodies 
worn  and  minds  dulled. 

"  Lost,  a  Fatherland ! "  That  is  what  he  said 
to  me  with  a  bitter  smile.  Lost,  the  faith  he  cher- 
ished, a  wisp  of  straw  whirled  about  by  the  ex- 
piring breath  of  a  cyclone. 

It  was  a  gruesome  sight,  those  hundreds  of  gray 
figures  in  the  gray  morning,  and  with  the  sunrise 
they  were  gone,  like  a  bad  dream. 

About  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  was  ad- 
mitted into  the  fragment  of  a  country,  once  great 
and  powerful,  always  proud.  Nothing  is  left  of 
the  broad,  rich  plains  which  fed  her,  little  of  min- 
eral mines,  nothing  of  coal,  the  harbours  to  the 
sea  gone.  Just  a  wrinkled  peanut  in  a  cracked 
shell — that  is  Austria. 

One  could  not  love  the  Austro-Hungarian  mon- 
archy, except,  perhaps,  as  a  little  boy  loves  a 
menagerie;  yet  as  I  saw  the  wreck  of  it  I  felt  a 
profound  pity.  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  train 
and  climb  those  blue  foothills  of  the  Alps,  and  pet 
them,  and  speak  comforting  words  to  those  pic- 
turesque villages  and  towns,  nestling  close.  I 
wanted  to  tell  them  that  I  loved  them  in  their  hu- 
miliation, as  I  did  not  love  them  in  the  days  of 
their  pride. 

I  wanted  to  call  to  the  Danube,  along  whose 
beautiful  banks  we  travelled,  and  tell  it  that  I 


FINIS  AUSTEIA  117 

loved  it  when,  a  student,  I  wandered  beside  its 
waters;  how  I  envied  it  because  it  was  uncon- 
scious of  the  poHtical  and  racial  quarrels  which 
wrung  my  heart.  I  wanted  to  sing  to  it  the  Dan- 
ube songs  I  used  to  sing,  when  the  river  inspired 
in  me  high  thoughts,  and  made  me  dream  dreams. 

The  Danube  narrows,  and  rushes,  and  roars, 
and  grows  ever  more  glorious.  Ruins  of  castles 
were  reflected  in  its  turbulent  waters,  and  beyond, 
I  saw  the  Abbey  of  Melk,  like  a  city  crowning  a 
hilltop.  Vast  fields  and  forests  circle  the  mon- 
astery, the  church  and  the  schools. 

I  wished  I  might  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Melk, 
and  tell  the  padres  how  a  little  boy  used  to  haunt 
the  Abbey  on  Sunday  afternoons.  How  he 
breathed  deeply  of  the  pure,  sweet,  solemn  air,  and 
how  it  strengthened  his  spirit,  struggling  with  the 
flesh. 

I  wanted  to  creep  into  that  vaulted  library  to  see 
if  that  same  old,  tall,  thin  librarian  still  watched 
over  those  sacred  tomes.  Once,  he  pulled  one  of 
them  out  for  the  little  boy,  and  made  his  eyes 
fairly  bulge,  seeing  those  stiff,  yellow,  illuminated 
pages,  upon  which  pious  monks  wrote  with  infinite 
patience,  letter  upon  letter,  that  piety  and  learn- 
ing might  not  vanish  from  the  world.  That  little 
boy  had  an  ambitious  thought  born  in  him  among 
those  books.  He  would  write  books,  too,  or,  like 
the  good  padres,  wander  about  the  cloisters  of  a 
library,  reading  them. 


118      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Theirs  were  saintly  faces,  sweet,  calm  faces 
which  the  little  boy,  long  since  grown  to  be  a  man, 
misses  in  our  hurly-burly  America.  He  wanted 
to  tell  those  men  that  looking  at  them  did  him 
good;  though  they  probably  never  noticed  the 
curly-haired,  blue-eyed  youth,  who  came  to  Melk. 

We  were  approaching  the  suburbs  of  Vienna, 
and  my  heart  was  heavy  from  sadness  and  pity. 
Yonder  I  saw  the  Kahlenberg,  faithful  sentinel, 
guarding  the  city  ever  since  the  Romans  called  it 
Vindobona.  I  wanted  to  pat  its  bald  head,  and 
tell  it  how  much  joy  I  had  when,  as  a  child,  I 
climbed  it,  and  saved  my  thirty  hellers  by  not 
using  the  funicular  railway.  I  spent  that  huge 
sum  in  buying  a  glass  of  fresh  milk,  a  big  slab 
from  a  huge  loaf  of  rye  bread,  and  a  pat  of  sweet 
butter,  I  have  tasted  nectar  and  ambrosia,  sit- 
ting at  rich  men's  tables;  but  never  has  food 
tasted  like  that  Vesper  feast  on  the  Kahlenberg. 

Always  we  looked  to  you,  little  high  mountain. 
Good  news  and  bad  news  was  flashed  from  your 
height,  since  the  days  when  the  Turks  besieged  the 
city,  and  Sobijewsky  and  his  brave  Poles  came  to 
its  relief.  Little  but  bad  news  has  come  since, 
little  high  mountain ;  but  glory  and  beauty  always, 
and  fireworks  on  St.  John's  night,  and  the  Em- 
peror's Jubilee.  Don't  be  discouraged,  mountains 
must  rise  above  their  troubles. 

Hey!  Ho!  Here  is  the  Vienna  forest,  draped 
around  the  city  like  a  shawl  around  a  lady's  shoul- 


FINIS  AUSTRIA  119 

ders.  It,  too,  shows  the  wear  and  tear  of  war, 
the  long,  cold,  coalless  winters;  for  they  have 
come  there  with  desecrating  axes,  those  armies  of 
shivering  folk. 

I  must  go  out  there  and  wander  about,  and  see 
if  I  cannot  heal  its  hurt  pride;  for  that  forest 
never  grew  for  firewood.  It  grew  to  echo  songs, 
to  shade  lovers,  to  hide  them,  to  house  little  scat- 
tered inns,  where  the  merry  Viennese — father, 
mother,  and  all  the  children  came,  to  drink  the 
new,  mild  wine,  and  dip  crisp  rolls,  crystal  white 
with  salt,  into  the  red  gravy  of  Gidash.  That 
forest  grew  to  hear  the  petty  quarrels  of  the 
homeward  bound,  in  the  evening,  and  the  trees 
grew  close  together,  to  keep  the  tipplers  from  fall- 
ing. It  was  as  safe  in  the  night  as  during  the 
day. 

We  were  almost  in  the  city,  for  I  saw  the  rail- 
road yard,  looking  like  a  hospital  for  engines,  or 
a  poorhouse  for  trains.  Poor,  bruised,  unhealed, 
unrenewed,  unrenewable,  dead  engines;  shot 
through  and  through,  the  pistons  sticking  into  the 
steam  chest  like  a  tired  man's  hands  into  his 
trouser  pockets,  the  steam  pipes  exposed  like  the 
vitals  of  a  man — hopeless,  hopeless ! 

At  last  we  pulled  into  the  railroad  station,  the 
yellow,  sooty,  Wcsthahnhof.  I  took  a  deep 
breath ;  for  I  knew  I  must  suffer  more,  and  com- 
fort more,  in  this  doomed  city,  this  gay  city,  this 
loveliest  among  the  cities  of  Europe. 


XIII 
THE  MERRY  WIDOW 

VIENNA  had  reenchanted  me,  and  I  had  to 
tear  myself  away  from  her.  In  fact  I 
had  never  before  seen  her  so  beautiful,  so 
winning,  so  gracious,  in  spite  of  her  consumptive 
children,  underfed  apprentices,  half-starved  stu- 
dents and  emaciated  professors.  Vienna  is  still 
the  loveliest  of  cities,  in  spite  of  the  hard-pressed 
mittlcstand,  the  schiehcrs  (profiteers)  and  smug- 
glers, rapacious  traders,  body  sellers  and  snatch- 
ers;  in  spite  of  the  ooze  of  iniquity  in  which  she 
wallows,  yes,  even  in  spite  of  death  and  decay, 
Vienna  is  still  matchless.  She  is  like  a  widow 
after  the  first  shock  of  grief  is  over.  She  has 
wept ;  but  has  dried  her  tears.  She  has  mourned ; 
but  laughter  is  creeping  back  into  her  heart.  She 
was  forsaken ;  now  she  is  being  wooed  again,  and 
the  lovers  of  life  are  at  her  door  asking  for  her 
songs,  her  wit,  her  dances,  the  smile  of  her  pretty 
face,  the  skill  of  her  nimble  fingers. 

The  children  who  deserted  her  and  left  her  to 
die,  confess  that  they  cannot  live  without  her. 
Czechs  and  Jugo-slavs,  Slovaks  and  Magyars, 
Roumanians  and   Serbians,  with  false  passports 

X20 


THE  MERRY  WIDOW  121 

and  good  money,  crowd  her  shops,  hotels  and 
cabarets,  glad  to  escape  the  drab,  hard  life  of  their 
new-made  states ;  thrilling  to  her  ancient  rapture. 

With  heavy  heart  I  came  to  Vienna  as  to  the 
house  of  mourning;  but  her  tears  were  like 
diamonds  smiling  back  the  sunlight  a  thousand 
times.  Her  complaints  were  only  for  the  day. 
The  yesterday  is  forgotten,  and  to-morrow  may 
not  come. 

To  the  careless  observer  there  are  but  few 
things  missing  in  Vienna.  The  parks  are  there 
in  their  old-time  beauty,  including  the  Prater,  the 
Coney  Island  of  Vienna;  or,  one  should  say  that 
Coney  Island  is  the  Prater  of  New  York;  for  the 
Prater  antedates  Coney  Island  by  only  a  few 
centuries. 

The  same  crowds  in  which  I  was  lost  as  a  boy, 
the  same  merry-go-rounds  which  gave  me  my  first 
whirl  around  the  world,  and  oh,  joy  of  joys!  the 
same  Punch  and  Judy  shows,  yea  verily ! 

The  music,  however,  is  softer,  for  the  military 
brass  bands  are  gone;  the  merriment  is  subdued, 
for  the  beer  is  thin,  and  the  wine  is  dear. 

The  cry  of  the  Italian  peddler  of  cheese  and 
salami — "  salami,  salamundi !  "  is  heard  no  more. 
Peanuts  and  moving  pictures  have  been  added  to 
the  delights  of  the  Prater,  both  blessings  from  the 
United  States. 

Bosnian  venders  of  canes,  and  pipes,  and  home- 
made daggers,  are  gone,  and  the  Slovak  women 


122      OLD  TEAILS  AKD  NEW  B0RDEE3 

selling  embroidery  or  black  radishes  have  also 
disappeared.  Indeed,  all  the  exotic-looking  peo- 
ples of  the  monarchy  have  fled  to  tlieir  various  cor- 
ners, Vienna  now  being  a  German-speaking  city. 

The  soldiers,  the  trim,  tightly-trousered,  red 
and  blue-coated  soldiers  are  gone.  Here  and 
there  one  sees  a  few,  pathetically  shabby,  like  de- 
generate children  of  heroic  parents.  The  Ho f burg 
seems  a  strange  place  without  them.  Once,  alert 
guards  stood  at  every  gate  watchful  for  superior 
officers  and  royalty.  A  dozen,  a  hundred  times  a 
day,  came  the  sharp  word  of  command,  the  rattle 
of  drums,  a  company  presenting  arms. 

In  the  olden  days,  noontime  at  the  Hofhurg 
was  the  golden  hour  for  children  and  students, 
apprentices  and  loafers.  From  some  distant  bar- 
racks came  the  new  guard,  beating  the  hard  pave- 
ment to  the  tune  of  the  Radeczky  march.  Win- 
dows on  the  route  were  thrown  open,  maids  and 
Frduleins,  lured  by  gold  braid,  brass  buttons  and 
fierce  mustachios,  waved  and  smiled;  while  work 
waited  as  long  as  the  magic  music  or  the  roll  of 
the  drum  was  heard. 

Behind  the  guard  came  the  real  guard  of 
honour,  the  proletariat  of  Vienna,  children  and 
grown-ups,  hand  in  hand,  blocking  traffic,  stop- 
ping business,  moving  In  perfect  step  to  the  Hof- 
burg.  There,  facing  the  balcony  where  the  state 
chambers  were,  the  band  circled  and  began  to 
play.    The  eager  crowd  looked  upward,  to  be  re- 


THE  MERRY  WIDOW  123 

warded,  perhaps,  by  the  sheen  of  an  ancient 
spear,  the  glow  of  a  red  coat,  or  the  ghtter  of  the 
brass  helmet  of  an  inner  or  outer  guard,  standing 
immovable  at  his  post. 

All  that  is  now  but  a  memory.  The  Hofhurg 
is  empty  of  royalty  and  pomp,  and  sheen  of  splen- 
dour. Charity  is  now  the  Empress,  and  instead  of 
guards  and  bands,  hungry  crowds  gather  for  their 
rations,  American  tin  cans  are  stacked  in  royal 
chambers,  and  the  Quakers  sit  modestly  in 
princely  halls,  dealing  out  the  bounty  of  the  Eng- 
lish and  American  people  to  generals  and  colonels, 
to  their  widows  and  orphans,  to  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  robes,  and  to  masters  of  hounds  and 
stables.  The  Hapsburgs  are  gone  out  of  their 
castle  forever  and  ever,  and,  strange  to  say,  they 
are  not  missed  by  those  who,  from  afar,  feasted 
on  their  magnificence. 

Is  it  the  light-heartedness  of  Vienna?  Is  it  in- 
gratitude? Is  it  weariness?  Is  it  because  the 
Quaker  gray  is  a  better  colour  for  times  like  these 
than  the  black  and  yellow  of  the  Hapsburgs? 

Street  cars  are  moving  with  their  usual  slow 
dignity,  though  the  conductors  refuse  to  take  tips, 
unbelievable  as  that  sounds.  'Buses  have  sent  the 
horses  which  drew  them  to  the  butcher-shop,  and 
are  double-decked  and  smell  of  gasoline.  Business 
seems  normal  with  the  hours  shorter  and  sweeter. 
The  coffee  houses  have  diminished  in  number, 
grown  shabby,  and  sert'e  vile  coffee,  with  saccha- 


124      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

rin  in  place  of  sugar.  The  white,  crisp  rolls  and 
the  twisted  things  full  of  cinnamon  and  raisins 
are  in  the  realm  of  the  unattainable,  and  black 
bread,  in  scant  rations,  is  a  bitter  reality. 

Upon  the  ruins  of  the  coffee  houses  banks  are 
growing.  Marble  and  plate  glass,  Corinthian 
columns  and  shining  brass  adorn  these  temples  of 
Mammon,  and  give  that  sense  of  security  which, 
everywhere,  children  who  play  with  baubles  of 
gold,  demand. 

Theatres  and  concert-halls  are  more  numerous 
and  are  nightly  filled  by  a  feverish  throng.  Art 
has  become  a  narcotic,  and  is  cheaper,  infinitely 
cheaper  than  clothing.  Luckily  "  the  wind  is 
tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  for  clothes  are  fash- 
ionably scant.  Vienna  has  not  lost  its  good  taste 
or  its  marvellous  skill,  and  shears  and  needle  have 
done  wonders  with  inferior  materials. 

The  Graben  and  the  Kaerntner  Strasse,  the  main 
shopping  streets  of  Vienna,  were  blossoming  into 
spring  styles,  so  beautiful  and  so  expensive 
that,  for  the  Viennese,  they  are  like  the 
"  fruit  of  the  tree  in  the  midst  of  the  garden  " — ■ 
a  feast  for  the  eye,  tempting  to  Eve  and  Adam 
alike.  Clothing,  next  to  food,  is  the  great  desire, 
and  men  steal  to  buy  it,  and  women  do  worse,  and 
both  are  cast  out  of  Paradise. 

One  evening  I  was  invited  to  a  theatre  party 
in  the  Burg.  We  occupied  a  box  so  near  the 
draped  and  crowned  enclosure  where  Royalty  used 


THE  MERRY  WIDOW  125 

to  enjoy  the  performances,  that  we  could  look  into 
it.  Long  ago  I  saw  my  first  play  in  the  fourth 
gallery  of  the  old  Burg,  that  dim  and  dingy  home 
of  the  muses.  At  that  time  the  Vienna  stage  was 
sacred,  consecrated  only  to  the  best  in  drama.  It 
was  an  institution  which  the  Viennese  worshipped 
and  revered,  and  the  court  subsidized.  The  actors 
were  demi-gods,  and  after  a  successful  perform- 
ance they  were  carried  home  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  crowd,   and  loudly  acclaimed. 

Such  names  as  Sonnenthal,  Lewinsky,  Charlotte 
Walter,  Hohenfels,  were  household  words.  Some 
of  them  were  knighted,  all  of  them  had  royal 
decorations  showered  upon  them.  One  of  them, 
Madame  Schraft,  was  said  to  enjoy  the  favour  of 
Francis  Joseph  till  his  dying  day. 

The  crowns,  the  eagles,  the  shields,  the  lances, 
all  the  decorative  motifs  of  imperialism  are  there. 

Not  so  many  years  ago  the  royal  box  was  sac- 
rosanct. That  night  schichcrs  occupied  it  and  ate 
sausages  between  the  acts.  The  repertoire  used  to 
be  in  harmony  with  monarchic  prejudice.  This 
night  the  play  was  Molnar's  comedy,  "  The 
Swan."  It  is  a  satire  on  royalty  in  which  the  char- 
acters are  unmistakably  Hapsburgs,  and  the  prob- 
lem of  a  match  with  the  heir  apparent,  contem- 
porary history;  yet  these  Viennese  who,  a  little 
while  ago,  looked  upon  tlie  ceremonial  which  sur- 
rounds royalty,  as  equivalent  to  the  sacredness  of 
the  mass,  were  thoroughly  enjoying  it. 


126      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

Vienna  is  suffering,  and  will  suffer ;  there  is  no 
doubt  about  that,  for  the  calamity  which  has  over- 
taken her  is  overwhelming.  The  capital  of  a  great 
Empire  from  which  about  forty  million  people 
were  more  or  less  ruled,  is  now  a  city  of  two  mil- 
lions, and  but  four  millions  of  people  to  maintain 

it 

All  the  purveyors  to  royalty,  all  the  ladies  in 
waiting,  all  the  officials  of  a  frightfully  over- 
officialized  kingdom — the  many  hangers  on  who 
were  paid  for  hanging  on;  the  pensioned  officers 
or  their  widows  and  the  thousands  who  invested 
their  all  in  war  bonds — all  of  them  are  left 
stranded  in  Vienna,  with  an  income  of  paper 
kronen,  six,  seven  or  eight  hundred  of  them  for 
an  American  dollar,  when  formerly,  at  par,  a 
kronen  was  worth  twenty  cents. 

For  a  long  time  the  privileged  class  lived  by 
selling  its  accumulated  luxuries,  and  later  its  com- 
forts, until  now,  the  walls  are  bare  and  beds  are 
hard. 

With  an  official  Quaker  visitor,  I  made  the 
rounds  one  morning,  and  we  came  into  a  flat  in 
which  there  was  actually  nothing  left,  not  even 
beds;  only  a  sofa  and  a  wardrobe.  An  old  woman 
in  rags  was  lying  111,  on  the  sofa,  while  a  middle- 
aged  daughter  moved  about  with  difficulty.  The 
name  ?  Ah  well,  the  name  was  once  a  proud  one. 
The  name  of  a  General  in  the  Austrian  army,  now 
the  name  of  a  beneficiary  of  benevolent  Quakers. 


THE  MEERY  WIDOW  127 

So  it  was,  the  entire  morning,  more  or  less  the 
same  story. 

Food  is  scarce  and  dear,  children  are  under- 
nourished, clothes  are  almost  unpurchasable  and 
thousands  of  people  stand  in  line  daily,  to  buy 
shoes  which  the  state  sells  at,  or  below,  cost.  The 
rich,  of  course,  get  all  and  everything  they  want; 
the  workmen  strike  on  every  occasion  and  get 
more  paper  crowns.  With  each  increase  in 
wages  prices  rise,  just  as  with  us,  but  they  man- 
age to  get  food  enough,  and  in  summer  clothes 
enough. 

Students  and  many  professors  could  not  exist 
if  it  were  not  for  the  one  meal  a  day,  which  they 
receive  from  the  American  Relief  Association ;  yet 
they  pursue  knowledge  with  the  old  time  vigour. 
In  fact,  every  one  in  Vienna  seems  to  study,  judg- 
ing by  the  young  people  who  crowd  the  University, 
the  working  men  who  throng  the  Volkshcim  and 
the  serious  books  one  sees  being  read  on  the  cars 
and  in  the  parks.  It  sometimes  seems  as  if  it 
would  be  best  to  close  the  schools  and  compel  the 
young  people  to  go  out  and  dig;  but  that  is  more 
easily  said  than  done.  Austria  has  not  enough 
soil  or  raw  material,  and  working  men  are  crowd- 
ing one  another  for  jobs.  However,  there  are 
movements  in  that  direction,  and  organizations 
have  been  started  to  acquire  land,  to  build  simple 
homes,  and  to  have  their  members  live  off  and  on 
the  land. 


128      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

The  Quakers  are  doing  much  in  that  direction, 
not  only  by  giving  needed  and  expert  advice,  but 
by  importing  from  Holland  and  England  pure 
stocks  of  cattle  and  breeds  of  chickens,  supervis- 
ing their  care,  and  allotting  the  increase  to  those 
who  will  make  the  best  use  of  them. 

Naturally  there  is  the  danger  that  the  relief 
work  which  has  saved  the  morale  of  the  Viennese 
may  turn  into  immorale,  as  they  are  naturally  an 
easy-going  people.  For  centuries  the  Czechs 
have  been  their  tailors  and  cobblers,  and  the 
Slovak  men  and  maidens  their  servants.  They 
have  lived  luxuriously  because  of  the  toil  of  the 
Magyar  and  Serb  farmers;  so  they  are  finding  it 
hard  to  rest  back  upon  their  own  endeavour,  and 
the  help  which  has  poured  in  from  all  over  the 
world  has  made  their  sense  of  dependence  greater. 
The  relief  workers,  realizing  that,  are  cutting 
down  wherever  possible,  and  stimulating  the  spirit 
of  self-help. 

I  did  not  visit  all  the  places  I  intended  to;  so 
much  of  the  hurt  of  Vienna  has  gone  uncom- 
forted,  because  I  was  so  absorbed  in  watching  the 
work  of  relief  and  seeing  a  new  order  developing 
upon  the  ruins  of  the  old. 

I  did  not  visit  the  Vienna  forest  or  the  Kahlen- 
berg;  but  I  did  go  to  "  Schoenhrunn"  the  favour- 
ite residence  of  the  old  Emperor  situated  in  a  su- 
perb park,  open  to  the  public. 

In  one  corner  of  it  is  a  zoological  garden,  the 


THE  MEKRY  WIDOW  129 

delight  of  my  childhood.  There  I  first  saw  an 
elephant  and  the  fearsome  lions  and  tigers;  also 
my  supposed  relatives,  the  anthropoid  apes.  I 
have  lost  my  taste  for  menageries  since  knowing 
the  human  family  better,  and  I  did  not  even  look 
at  the  animals  as  I  passed.  I  had  a  more  serious 
errand  at  '"  Schocnbrunn." 

I  climbed  the  broad  stairways  of  the  palace  to 
the  top  floor,  and  there  found  the  children  of  the 
so-called  proletariat,  living  in  the  spacious  rooms, 
breathing  the  clean  air  blowing  in  through  the 
high  windows;  going  to  school  in  the  salons  and 
ballrooms,  working  with  saw,  chisel,  brush  and 
modelling  tools;  with  no  visible  discipline,  gently 
guided  by  three  men  of  vision,  or  visionary  men, 
who  have  consecrated  themselves  to  educating  the 
children  for  the  new  order. 

An  Emperor's  palace  occupied  by  the  children 
of  the  working  men!  Why  not?  One  old  man 
and  his  entourage  occupied  these  hundreds  of 
rooms  full  of  the  useless  trappings  of  royalty. 
At  last  it  is  used  as  it  ought  to  be,  by  the  children 
of  the  workers. 

It  was  good  to  see  them  happy  and  healthy,  be- 
ing prepared  for  a  happy  and  healthy  social  order. 
The  spirit  of  the  pupils  of  this  school  Is  character- 
ized by  their  greeting  to  each  other,  to  the  teach- 
ers, and  to  us  who  visited  them:  "  Friendship."  It 
was  glorious  to  hear  the  word  in  that  palace  where 
for  so  many  years  wars  were  hatched  and  race  was 


130      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

played  against  race — the  big  word,  the  biggest 
word  in  the  world — Friendship. 

The  fate  of  Austria  is  still  hanging  in  the  bal- 
ance. Vienna  may  shrink  and  dwindle, — but  she 
may  not  die.  She  has  the  gift  of  immortality,  she 
has  the  treasures  which  are  not  in  "  earthen  ves- 
sels." She  has  art  and  full  joy  in  creating,  she 
has  a  tuneful  heart  against  which  the  smallest  joys 
vibrate  into  mighty  solos. 

She  harbours  no  revenge,  she  bears  no  malice, 
knows  no  hate.  She  is  rid  of  the  incubus  of  an 
army  and  of  a  royal  house,  from  which  decay  has 
percolated  through  the  wholesome  middle-class,  to 
the  very  bottom. 

Above  all  else  she  has  a  sense  of  humour — even 
now  she  laughs  at  herself.  Her  inflated  currency, 
her  deflated  aristocracy,  her  being  fed  through  the 
nursing  bottle  of  charity  and  allowed  just  so  many 
pulls;  not  knowing  where  to-morrow's  food  for 
her  two  millions  will  come  from  or  "  where- 
withal "  she  "  shall  be  clothed."  All  this  gives  her 
a  chance  for  banter  and  jesting.  She  Is  the  "Merry 
Widow  "  and  she  glides  to  a  seductive  waltz,  not 
knowing  or  caring  who  will  pay  the  fiddlers. 


XIV 
NEW  BARRIERS  FOR  OLD 

IN  Austria  the  Danube  is  still  blue:  there  alone 
its  waves  roll  to  waltz  time  and  not  to  war 
tunes;  there  alone  its  shores  are  still  sacred 
to  poets,  composers  and  lovers.  There  is  no 
"  Watch  on  the  Danube  "  to  be  kept,  sword  in 
hand,  though  one  can  scarcely  turn  around  in  that 
decimated  country  without  striking  a  foreign  land. 

The  boat  on  which  I  travelled  sailed  under  the 
Hungarian  flag,  unchanged  in  colour  and  its  defi- 
ant spirit,  the  crown  of  St.  Stephen  with  its  tilted 
cross,  spread  over  its  folds.  If  one  spoke  German 
when  one  stepped  upon  that  boat,  the  stewards  and 
officers  were  contemptuous;  if  one  spoke  Slovak 
or  Czech,  he  would  better  have  had  his  coffee 
tasted  by  some  one  whose  life  was  not  as  valuable 
as  his  own. 

As  the  city  of  Vienna  receded,  everything  which 
the  Viennese  covet  and  cannot  obtain  appeared  on 
the  dining-room  tables:  White  bread,  butter,  milk, 
bacon,  coffee,  and  best  of  all,  lumps  of  sugar.  No 
wonder  the  Magyars  are  haughty.  Not  only  have 
they  food  and  drink  in  abundance,  an  Hungarian 

131 


132      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

krone  buys  ten  Austrian  in  exchange,  and  the 
waiter  accepted  my  inferior  script  with  an  air  of 
condescension. 

The  journey  down  the  Danube  is  scenically  un- 
important, but  from  the  ethnic  standpoint  most  in- 
teresting, and  never  before  so  much  so  as  on  my 
recent  trip,  when  my  fellow-passengers  were  citi- 
zens of  new  countries,  and  often  reluctantly.  Now 
more  than  ever  they  speak  their  respective  lan- 
guages defiantly,  and  thus  develop  new  angles  of 
friction.  The  Treaty  of  Versailles  has  made  the 
confusion  of  nationalities  worse  than  ever;  for  it 
has  merely  transferred  the  turbulent  waters  of  the 
Old  Monarchy  into  smaller  vessels,  not  a  single 
one  of  which  is  as  yet  strong  enough  to  stand 
against  the  pressure.  I  met  Germans  who  are  re- 
luctant Czechs,  Magyars  who  have  had  to  swear 
allegiance  to  Slovakia  or  Roumania,  Austrians 
who  are  governed  by  Italians,  and  some  whose 
political  fate  has  not  yet  been  decided,  and  who  do 
not  know  where  they  belong.  No  one  seems  quite 
comfortable  under  the  new  order,  and  my  fellow- 
passengers,  though  boasting  of  their  new  coun- 
tries, republics  and  kingdoms,  looked  as  happy  as 
the  wearer  of  a  new  pair  of  patent  leather  shoes 
when  the  sun  is  hot ;  while  those  who  have  no  new 
country  to  boast  of,  are  happy  in  nursing  a  new 
grudge.  Altogether  as  I  watched  them  around 
the  breakfast  table,  these  children  of  the  old  Aus- 
tro-Hungarian  Monarchy,  they  seemed  to  be  in  the 


NEW  BAERIEKS  FOR  OLD  133 

attitude  of  the  couple  who,  after  being  divorced, 
discovered  that  though  they  could  not  live  with 
each  other,  they  could  not  live  without  each  other. 
Economic  necessities  are  driving  them,  not  into 
each  other's  arms,  but  nearer  to  one  another,  and 
each  is  waiting  for  the  other  to  acknowledge  the 
mistake  of  such  complete  separation. 

The  new  confusion  began  to  manifest  itself  at 
the  first  landing  place  from  Vienna.  The  steam- 
boat officials  called  it  Poszony,  and  the  Germans 
good-naturedly  said  that  they  would  get  off  at 
Pressburg;  but  the  Slovaks  named  it  defiantly 
Bratoslava,  and  they  all  got  off  at  the  same  place, 
to  live  with  each  other  as  happily  as  the  proverbial 
cat  and  dog.  I  did  not  leave  the  boat  with  them, 
for  it  would  have  meant  the  cancellation  of  my 
vise,  for  which  the  Czechs  charge  ten  dollars 
American  money.  I  went  on  to  Budapest,  the 
Danube  fortunately  being  international,  and  we 
crossed  the  line  from  Czecho-Slovakia  into  Hun- 
gary, unmolested. 

My  Magyar  fellow-passengers  sent  a  few  choice 
curses  upon  the  government  which  now  controls 
the  city,  hallowed  by  the  tombs  of  Magyar  kings, 
and  every  stone  of  which  is  eloquent  of  Magyar 
history.  The  Danube  broadens  as  one  leaves 
Bratoslava,  the  luxurious  plain  of  Hungary  is 
seen,  broad  skirted  and  picturesque  peasants  are  at 
work  in  the  fields,  towns  and  cities  peacefully  rural 
In  their  aspect  are  left  behind,  and  as  the  night 


134      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

came,  we  passed  Margareth  Island  and  landed  in 
Budapest,  which,  like  all  cities  that  have  tasted  of 
the  Bolshevik  terror,  is  nervous,  and  the  traveller 
is  met  by  excusable  suspicion. 

The  police,  the  hotel  porter,  innumerable  loyal 
citizens,  formerly  army  officers,  "  watch  your 
step,"  and  the  city  smells  of  the  prison,  till  one  can 
almost  hear  the  clanking  of  chains.  The  white 
terror  is  a  real  terror,  and  a  gloom  has  settled 
over  the  people. 

Budapest  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  least  peaceful 
spot  on  the  globe,  and  no  one  disguises  the  fact 
that  the  vanquished  Magyars  are  gathering 
strength  for  another  blow.  It  is  not  merely 
wounded  pride  that  makes  them  build  monuments 
that  cry  out  for  vengeance ;  not  only  is  there  a  loss 
of  peoples  and  territories — millions  of  their  own 
race  are  now  the  subjects  of  nations  which  are  up- 
starts in  history,  and  some  of  them  have  remained 
culturally  beneath  them.  The  feeling  of  France 
for  the  lost  provinces,  the  Italian  passion  for  the 
Irridenta  were  never  as  strong  as  is  the  cry  of 
Hungary  for  her  abducted  stepchildren. 

Incapable  as  the  Magyars  had  shown  themselves 
in  governing  the  minor  nationalities,  stupid  and 
venal  as  were  their  officials,  they  did  display  a  cer- 
tain attractive  chivalry.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
one  could  get  anything  for  money  in  the  Hun- 
garian courts,  there  was  a  freedom  from  sordid- 
ness.     The  Magyar  was  an  aristocrat.     Too  indo- 


NEW  BAKEIERS  FOR  OLD  135 

lent  to  be  severe,  too  pleasure-loving  to  be  indus- 
trious, he  was  v^'hat  the  Americans  call  a  "  good 
fellow."  Defeat,  revolution  and  invasion  have 
left  their  mark  upon  him,  the  good  fellowship  is 
gone,  the  government  is  sternly  militaristic,  and 
the  officials  are  the  former  army  officers.  There 
are  harsh  repression,  and  unspeakable  cruelty,  and 
the  Hungarian  government  at  the  present  time  is  a 
militaristic  government  at  its  worst. 

My  visit  coincided  with  the  futile  attempt  of  the 
former  King  Charles  to  regain  his  throne,  and 
while  the  houses  were  not  flagged  for  his  welcome, 
the  people  were  ready  for  him,  and  had  the  Little 
Entente  not  threatened,  he  would  have  been  re- 
ceived in  triumph.  Hungary  is  incurably  aristo- 
cratic and  monarchic,  and  though  this  last  of  the 
Hapsburgs  is  not  even  an  "  inch  a  king  "  either 
physically  or  mentally,  he  is  the  constitutional  heir 
to  the  crown  of  St.  Stephen,  and  it  may  be  kept  for 
him  until  Hungary  has  made  alliances  enough  to 
defy  the  Little  Entente,  composed  of  Czecho- 
slovakia, and  the  Kingdom  of  Serbia,  Croatia, 
Slovania,  and  Roumania. 

Politics  makes  "  strange  bed-fellows,"  and  a 
Magyar  alliance  with  Poland,  which  is  a  Slavic 
nation,  is  like  the  proverbial  mixing  of  oil  with 
water;  yet  they  are  discovering  racial  excellencies 
in  each  other  which  they  never  have  seen  before. 
Poets  have  started  their  rhyming  mills,  historians 
are  studying  the  historic  tombstones  to  prove  spiri- 


136       OLD  TEAILS  AKD  NEW  BORDEES 

tual  relationships,  and  all  that,  because  they  now 
have  a  common  foe. 

Hungary  has  a  peculiarly  tender  affection  for 
the  United  States,  which  is  partly  historical, 
though  it  is  due  to  the  excellent  work  of  the  Red 
Cross  and  other  relief  organizations. 

One  wishes  that  the  altogether  abnormal  na- 
tionalism of  the  Magyars  might  become  modified 
through  this  relationship;  but  that  is  too  much  to 
hope  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  for  Hungary  is  a 
seething  caldron  of  Chauvinism;  it  is  hot  with  the 
heat  of  Tophet  and  steaming  with  relentless  fury. 
The  Balkan  has  moved  westward,  and  Hungary  is 
the  centre  of  a  new  powder  magazine. 

I  revisited  the  spot  made  sacred  by  a  monument 
to  George  Washington,  which  in  my  childhood 
was  my  first  glimpse  of  the  lofty  peak  of  Ameri- 
can history.  I  linked  this  experience  with  that  of 
a  visit  to  the  Frencz  Deak  monument,  which  cele- 
brates the  deeds  of  a  liberal  and  constructive 
statesman,  and  also  the  minor  fact  that  I  made 
a  speech  at  his  memorial  service  at  the  tender 
age  of  five  years.  Thus  early  I  acquired  the 
habit. 

I  did  not  leave  Budapest  with  regret,  though  I 
was  again  thrilled  by  this  modern  city  which  is  yet 
so  typically  Hungarian,  its  architecture  born  of  its 
national  life.  I  felt  the  majesty  of  the  Danube, 
its  beauty  enhanced  by  monumental  bridges,  its 
shores  undesecrated  by  the  waste  of  industries  and 


NEW  BAEEIEES  FOR  OLD  137 

the  clutter  of  commerce.  I  visited  old  haunts,  and 
heard  gypsy  music  at  its  best  and  American  jazz, 
played  in  my  honour,  at  its  worst.  I  wandered 
through  the  picturesque  markets,  my  eyes  glad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  gorgeous  peasant  costumes, 
my  hands  itching  for  their  possession,  and  my  nose 
tickled  by  the  sharp  odour  of  paprika,  lavish  and 
unconfined,  offered  for  sale. 

In  spite  of  these  joys  and  those  which  memory 
brought,  it  was  painful  to  live  there,  even  the 
forty-eight  hours  allowed  me  by  the  police; 
for  I  found  no  regrets  except  for  having 
lost  the  war,  no  hope  for  the  future  but  in  recon- 
quest,  no  aim  but  to  reestablish  a  discredited  mon- 
archy, and  make  permanent  the  rule  of  the  privi- 
leged class.  In  Budapest  reaction  is  in  the  sad- 
dle and  is  riding  rough  shod  over  liberal  thought. 
I  experienced  a  peculiar  feeling  of  relief  when  my 
passport  was  viseed  for  my  departure,  and  when 
the  city  was  lost  in  the  level  plains,  as  my  train 
crawled  reluctantly  toward  the  Czecho-Slovak  bor- 
der. My  joy  in  leaving  Hungary  was  heightened 
by  my  anticipation  of  returning  to  my  native  coun- 
try, which,  strange  to  say,  I  was  visiting  for  the 
first  time;  as  ten  years  ago,  there  was  no  Czecho- 
slovakia, not  even  in  President  Masaryk's  dreams. 
An  autonomous  Bohemia,  and  a  Slovakia  in  which 
the  Slovak  language  was  recognized  as  the  official 
tongue,  was  the  most  that  even  such  an  ardent 
patriot  as  myself  expected. 


138       OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

I  thought  I  would  fall  upon  my  knees  at  the 
border,  in  the  ecstasy  of  seeing  my  young  dreams 
more  than  realized.  I  thought  that  I  would  kiss 
the  soil  of  Czecho-Slovakia,  freed  from  the  rule  of 
the  Hapsburgs,  and  now  forever  sacred ;  but  there 
was  no  triumphal  arch  through  which  to  pass,  no 
ornamental  gateway,  opening  wide  its  portals  to 
the  returning  patriot  worshipper;  only  a  rough, 
uninviting  shed,  surly-looking  soldiers,  and  cus- 
toms officials  who  have  become  famous  in  all  Eu- 
rope for  the  relentlessness  of  their  search.  If  the 
judgment  day  holds  half  the  terrors  of  the  Czecho- 
slovak borders,  then,  oh  sinners,  haste  and  repent ! 

I  should  have  been  prepared  for  a  certain  dis- 
illusionment ;  for  freedom  is  not  in  new  flags  and 
repainted  barriers ;  but  in  men's  souls.  The  land- 
scape was  unchanged,  Slovak  goose  girls  and  geese 
were  as  ubiquitous  as  ever,  and  the  straw-thatched 
villages  as  monotonously  alike  as  of  yore,  but  I  did 
expect  a  thrill,  and  I  feel  cheated  because  I  did  not 
have  it.  I  did  not  anticipate  that  the  gentleman 
who  examined  my  passport  would  fall  about  my 
neck,  and  call  for  a  robe  and  a  ring  and  the  fatted 
calf ;  but  he  might  have  sensed  the  situation  when 
he  saw  an  American  passport,  and  read  that  I  was 
born  in  this  new  country,  and  he  might  at  least 
have  been  civil.  Perhaps  the  official  who  exam- 
ined my  meagre  bag  could  tell  from  my  few  be- 
longings that  I  was  a  returning  patriot,  breathless 
to  enter  my  native  country,   and  he  may  have 


NEW  BAEEIEES  FOR  OLD  139 

wished  to  show  me  special  courtesy  by  compelHng 
me  to  undress  in  a  room  many  degrees  below  com- 
fortable warmth;  but  when  he  poked  his  fingers 
into  my  armpits  1  thought  he  carried  his  joyous 
welcome  too  far.  Fortunately  or  unfortunately 
my  experience  was  no  exception,  for  men  came  out 
of  other  such  torture  chambers,  pale  and  trembling 
or  flushed  and  wrathful;  one  woman  grew  hys- 
terical, and  one  fainted  and  had  to  be  revived  by  a 
physician.  The  few  kronen  of  revenue  which  are 
being  added  to  the  treasury  because  of  this  supe- 
rior vigilance  cannot  compensate  the  Republic  for 
the  ill-will  engendered,  and  such  super-zeal  ought 
to  be  curbed  for  the  sake  of  the  good-will  the  new 
country  needs. 

At  last  I  was  free,  or  at  least  I  thought  I  was,  to 
kneel  down  and  kiss  the  earth  or  give  vent  to  my 
emotions  in  a  less  ardent  way,  when  I  was  accosted 
by  two  minor  officials,  who  demanded  a  tax  on  my 
bag,  just  because  it  was  a  bag.  Having  no  Czech- 
ish change,  I  had  to  return  to  the  station,  get  the 
proper  krone  and  by  the  time  that  formality  was 
over  and  I  had  relieved  my  feelings,  my  patriotism 
and  my  enthusiasm  had  vanished,  and  I  entered 
my  native  country  with  my  stock  of  joy  at  low 
ebb. 

Bratoslava,  formerly  Poszony  and  still  more 
formerly  Pressburg,  thrilled  me  nevertheless.  It 
is  Cinderella  at  last  become  a  queen — or  the  older 
and  homelier  sister  making  a  good  match  and  re- 


140      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEKS 

joicing  over  the  widowhood  and  poverty  of  both 
Vienna  and  Budapest;  it  is  the  last  becoming 
first,  the  reversal  of  history.  All  her  glory  had 
been  taken  from  her:  the  glory  of  crowning  the 
Hungarian  Kings,  of  being  the  seat  of  high  learn- 
ing, of  having  a  thriving  commerce;  and  she  was 
reduced  to  being  a  second  rate  garrison  city,  that 
Budapest  might  be  the  more  glorious. 

Now  Bratoslava  is  a  real  capital  of  a  real  coun- 
try, more  than  a  thousand  years  of  wrong  are  rec- 
tified, and  she  has  received  back  her  own — with 
interest. 

Czecho-Slovak  soldiers  are  wearing  Czecho- 
slovak uniforms,  when,  a  few  years  ago,  they 
were  tightly  laced  into  Austro-Hungarian  trou- 
sers and  drilled  to  an  alien  tongue.  French  influ- 
ence is,  however,  visible  in  the  cut  of  the  clothes 
and  in  the  presence  of  French  drill  masters.  The 
Central  Powers  being  disarmed,  the  militaristic 
performances  of  Europe  are  being  taught  every- 
where by  Frenchmen. 

Business  In  Bratoslava  is  booming.  The  stores 
are  well  stocked  and  crowded  by  purchasers,  nu- 
merous banks  lure  the  investors  and  life  seems 
running  at  high  tide;  while  a  bad  touch  of  na- 
tionalistic fever  keeps  the  pulse  irregular. 

There  Is  a  haughty  air  about  Bratoslava,  which 
reminds  me  of  my  pride  in  my  first  trousers,  or  the 
still  more  exciting  adventure  of  tripping  a  big 
bully — a  sort  of  David  and  Goliath  stunt,  which 


NEW  BAERIERS  FOR  OLD  141 

made  me  very  daring  and  brave,  until  another 
Goliath  gave  me  a  licking. 

I  should  like  to  tell  this  to  Bratoslava,  but  it  is 
difficult  to  know  what  language  to  use;  for,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  she  is  the  Slovak  capital,  I 
heard  more  German  than  Slovak — even  the  Mag- 
yar tongue  being  spoken  openly  and  defiantly. 

As  formerly,  the  Slovaks  spoke  their  language 
to  keep  alive  national  hopes  and  defy  their  op- 
pressors, so  now  the  Hungarians  speak  Magyar  in 
the  spirit  of  revolt. 

Newspapers  in  all  three  languages  are  published, 
two  of  them  being  German;  while  concerts  and 
theatricals  in  these  divers  tongues  make  their  own 
patriotic  appeal,  and  Bratoslava-Poszony-Press- 
burg  whatever  one  calls  it,  is  not  a  dull  city  polit- 
ically. 

However,  the  government  seems  stable,  if  not 
always  wise,  and  there  is  order  even  though  the 
former  privileged  classes  call  the  new  order  Bol- 
shevism. The  railroads  and  the  post-offices  func- 
tion with  regularity,  industry  and  commerce  are 
fostered  and  thriving,  and  the  contrast  between 
Czecho-Slovakia,  reactionary  Hungary  and  ruined 
Austria  is  great  enough  to  make  one  patient  with 
the  lesser  evils. 

Slovakia  is  a  lovely  country,  almost  altogether 
agricultural,  and  Its  people  so  dear  to  me  that  I 
soon  forgot  the  unpleasantness  at  the  border.  The 
stations  and  towns  through  which  I  passed  had  un- 


142      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

familiar  names,  as  one  of  the  first  acts  of  the  new 
government  was  evidently  the  rebaptism  of  the 
landscape,  a  sacred  ceremonial  very  dear  to  na- 
tionalists everywhere.  My  native  town  came  off 
easily,  for  it  remained  the  same  except  that  it 
wears  a  new  suffix  which  is  not  at  all  unbecoming, 
and  it  is  the  same  drear,  "  stuck  in  the  mud,"  drab- 
looking  town  it  always  has  been.  I  could  show  it 
to  a  stranger  in  fifteen  minutes.  There  are  four 
more  or  less  straight  streets,  meeting  at  the  town 
square,  two  churches,  sadly  wanting  in  beauty,  and 
in  need  of  repair,  a  synagogue,  the  most  unique 
building  in  town,  one  house  of  two  stories  which  is 
called  a  castle,  half  a  dozen  stores,  two  uninviting 
irms,  the  three  cemeteries,  and  the  tour  of  the  town 
would  be  over.  I  could  have  tarried  for  days,  for 
I  wanted  to  see  the  old,  modest  house  where  I  was 
born,  on  whose  damp  walls  I  wrote  the  alphabet, 
those  cold  mornings  when  the  moisture  had  turned 
into  frost.  I  wanted  to  climb  up  into  the  garret 
and  smell  the  apples  and  pears  which  were  buried 
in  the  grain,  to  keep  as  long  as  my  keen  appetite 
would  allow;  I  wanted  to  visit  the  room  where 
Uncle  Joe,  the  three-quarters  of  a  man,  an  erst- 
while Union  soldier,  showed  me  the  picture  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  and  made  me  an  American  and 
a  patriot,  and  eager  to  be  a  deliverer.  I  wanted 
to  visit  the  yard  where  Uncle  Joe  drilled  us,  and 
Yanczy  Pal's  orchard,  where  we  swore  to  deliver 
our  Slovak  people  from  the  yoke  of  the  oppressor. 


NEW  BARRIERS  FOR  OLD  143 

Abraham  Lincoln  was  responsible  for  some  very 
severe  whippings  that  I  got,  after  a  Fourth  of  July 
celebration  when  we  nearly  burned  down  the  town. 

After  all,  this  coming  back  to  one's  childhood 
home  is  a  sad  experience.  No  one  knew  or  cared 
that  I  organized  an  army  of  seven  boys,  one  of 
them  lame,  to  march  against  our  enemies,  and  I 
had  to  report  at  the  police  station  the  same  as 
everybody  else,  and  the  Chief  of  Police  had  as 
little  consideration  for  my  feelings  as  had  the  cus- 
toms house  officials. 

The  new  order  has  not  rejuvenated  anything  or 
anybody,  now  that  freedom  is  won,  and  the  new 
masters  have  made  themselves  at  home.  I  used  to 
see  happy  faces,  and  I  saw  none.  Shops  have  been 
plundered  twice.  Magyar  sympathizers,  and  there 
are  not  a  few,  have  been  imprisoned,  and  the  new 
officials  are,  if  possible,  more  arrogant  than  their 
Magyar  predecessors.  The  agricultural  labourers 
have  unionized  and  were  on  a  strike ;  taxes  are,  of 
course,  much  heavier,  the  value  of  the  krone  is 
low,  though  much  higher  than  the  Austrian.  Free- 
dom of  movement  is  restricted  by  exacting  pass- 
port regulations.  "  We  have  more  freedom,"  an 
old-time  friend  said  to  me,  "  but  we  have  less 
room  to  move  in." 

My  people  used  to  do  their  shopping  in  Vienna, 
which  is  three  hours'  distance  by  railroad.  Now 
they  must  shop  in  Prague,  which  is  at  least  ten 
hours  by  fast  train,  and  infinitely  more  expensive. 


144      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

Even  severe  illness  is  levied  upon  for  the  good  of 
the  Czech  capital;  for  one  cannot  go  to  see  a  spe- 
cialist in  Vienna  without  a  passport,  which  is  re- 
fused, and  the  sick  person  is  told  to  go  to  Prague, 
where  the  physicians  are  "  just  as  good."  Of 
course  passports  are  granted,  but  one  must  have 
"  pull  "  and  know  whose  palm  to  "  grease."  No 
wonder  that  the  average  citizen  of  Slovakia  does 
not  enthuse  over  the  new  order.  The  fact  is  that 
the  Czechs,  like  most  of  mankind,  have  learned 
nothing  from  history.  They  are  repeating  the 
blunders  of  the  Magyars.  They  are  accused  of 
being  repressive  and  Chauvinistic,  and  are  too 
eager  to  press  the  Slovaks  into  their  linguistic  and 
cultural  mould. 

The  Peace  of  Versailles  named  the  new  republic 
Czecho-Slovakia,  and  the  Czechs  are  eager  to  do 
away  with  the  hyphen;  while  some  of  the  Slovaks 
want  to  widen  it  and  create  of  their  country  an 
autonomous  government.  Czech  officials  have 
given  Slovakia  a  carpet-bag  administration,  and 
while  they  are  no  more  corrupt  than  their  Magyar 
predecessors,  they  are  rude  where  the  Magyars 
were  civil.  One  could  get  favours  from  a  Magyar 
ofHcial  for  good  words;  they  count  for  nothing 
now.  The  Czechs  want  money  and  plenty  of  it. 
This  may  be  merely  repeating  the  gossip  of  ene- 
mies, but  I  have  tested  the  new  masters,  and  I  have 
not  had  a  civil  word  in  all  my  contact  with  the  new 
officials. 


NEW  BAKRIEES  FOR  OLD  145 

Perhaps  civil  words  are  of  little  consequence, 
but  I  wish  that  the  young  man  whom  I  approached 
at  the  station  of  Bratoslava  to  buy  my  ticket  back 
to  Vienna  had  not  shouted  at  me,  asking  whether 
I  could  not  read  that  his  window  was  for  tickets 
to  parts  of  Czecho-Slovakia  only;  and  he  might 
have  been  civil  when  I  asked  him  to  direct  me  to 
the  right  place.  I  wish  also  that  I  had  suffered 
less  from  the  hands  of  the  customs  officers  in  leav- 
ing my  native  country.  I  wish  they  had  not 
broken  every  one  of  the  six  eggs  which  were  to 
sustain  me  on  my  journey.  I  wanted  to  say  that 
I  was  happy  in  coming  home  to  my  people,  and 
that  I  was  eager  to  come  again,  which  I  regret  be- 
ing unable  to  say.  I  still  love  the  Czecho-Slovak 
republic  and  wish  it  well.  I  still  believe  that  Presi- 
dent Masaryk  is  one  of  the  greatest  statesmen  in 
Europe  and  the  Abraham  Lincoln  of  his  people; 
but,  to  quote  a  Slovak  patriot:  "What  does  it 
profit  us  if  the  landlord  is  a  good  man  if  the  agent 
and  janitors  are  rascals?  " 

Czecho-Slovakia  cannot  rely  upon  military 
strength  to  keep  it  safe  from  its  antagonistic 
neighbours,  Poland  and  Hungary.  It  needs  inner 
strength  and  a  spiritual  solidarity,  and  that  it  does 
not  as  yet  possess.  The  Czechs  need  to  pray  for 
grace  to  soften  their  harsh  nationalism,  to  modify 
their  exuberance,  and  help  them  forget  the  ancient 
wrongs  they  suffered;  or,  if  they  must  remember, 
to  remind  them  how  cruel  a  political  yoke  may  be. 


146      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

and  it  is  not  softened  by  the  fact  that  they  and  the 
Slovaks  are  a  kindred  race.  Even  with  the  Slo- 
vaks completely  loyal  to  the  new  order,  the  new 
republic  has  one  or  two  million  Magyars  and  six 
or  seven  million  Germans  to  reconcile,  and  I  have 
seen  but  little  evidence  that  it  is  doing  it. 

I  fear  that  the  modern  Czech  nationalist  is  a 
poor  reconciler,  and  I  am  not  too  sanguine  in  be- 
lieving that  when  I  again  return  to  my  native  town 
it  will  be  a  part  of  that  new  republic  which  began 
its  career  with  the  best  wishes  of  every  American, 
especially  of  those  of  us  who  have  served  the  cause 
of  Slovak  freedom,  and  have  suffered  for  it. 


XV 
MADAM    POLAND 

CARL  EMIL  FRANCOIS  called  the  coun- 
tries east  of  Germany  "  Half  Asia."  To 
him  the  line  between  the  two  continents 
was  not  geographic  but  cultural,  for  he  noticed  the 
change  from  order  and  cleanliness  to  rutted  road- 
ways, poorly  tilled  farms,  dilapidated  villages, 
slovenly  cities  and  wretched  hotels. 

The  saving  "When  West  met  East  the  W^st 
began  to  scratch  "  is  not  elegant  but  alas,  true,  as 
every  traveller  knows  who  has  ventured  far  east 
of  Berlin. 

Whatever  one  may  say  of  the  German  rule  in 
the  east,  the  fact  remains  that  it  has  pushed  "  Half 
Asia  "  a  good  many  hundreds  of  miles  back,  and 
there  have  been  good  roads,  well-tilled  fields,  neat 
villages,  decent  hotels  and  no  vermin.  By  the 
Peace  of  Versailles  the  former  province  of  Posen 
has  gone  to  Poland,  a  decision  with  which  one  can- 
not quarrel ;  nevertheless  "  Half  Asia  "  is  creeping 
westward  and  makes  itself  painfully  apparent 
three  hours  after  Berlin  is  left  behind  on  a  train 
which  does  not  exert  itself  to  leave  Germany. 

The  German  border  ends  at  Stench,  and  I  should 
remember  it  even  if  it  were  not  so  unpleasant  a 

147 


148      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

name,  for  it  was  midnight  when,  with  bag  and 
baggage,  I  had  to  leave  a  fairly  comfortable  corner 
in  my  car  and  stand  waiting  two  hours  before  the 
customs  house  formalities  were  over.  The  Ger- 
mans performed  the  task  courteously  but  thor- 
oughly and  if  it  was  unpleasant  and  fatiguing,  it 
served  one  right  for  leaving  so  good  a  country  for 
Poland. 

Thirty  minutes  after  I  had  struggled  back  to  my 
comfortable  seat  in  the  car  we  arrived  at  Bench, 
where  the  Polish  customs  office  is  located.  Stench 
and  Bench  rhyme,  but  nothing  about  them  does; 
therefore  it  seemed  wise  to  put  many  kilometers 
between  German  and  Polish  customs  house  offi- 
cers. The  difference  between  Stench  and  Bench 
is  that  at  the  latter  one  has  to  walk  a  full  quarter 
of  a  mile  to  the  customs  house,  that  the  officers  are 
a  little  less  thorough  in  examining  one's  baggage, 
and  that  they  are  infinitely  more  careful  about 
scanning  one's  passport.  Fortunately  mine  was  in 
order,  but  how  awful,  had  it  not  been,  for  I  should 
have  had  to  spend  the  night  at  either  Bench  or 
Stench. 

Now  I  really  was  in  free  and  reunited  Poland. 
The  thought  overwhelmed  me,  for  this  freedom  is 
the  consummation  of  a  great,  historic  struggle, 
which  I  had  shared,  In  reading  Poland's  pathetic 
history,  and  in  the  solemn  enjoyment  of  her  art, 
whose  source  and  inspiration  was  the  national  cal- 
vary. 


MADAM  POLAND  149 

Over  one  hundred  years  ago  the  diplomatic  sur- 
geons of  Europe  performed  a  unique  operation  by 
attempting  to  divide  a  poHtical,  cultural  and  spiri- 
tual unit  into  three  unequal  parts.  Mechanically 
the  operation  was  successful;  one  part  of  the  pa- 
tient was  given  to  Russia,  one  to  Austria  and  one 
to  Germany;  but  the  divided  body  refused  to  be- 
come a  corpse. 

National  existence  of  eight  hundred  years  can 
be  temporarily  deadened  by  ether,  but  not  killed. 
It  had  been  but  a  feeble  life,  tortured  by  all  kinds 
of  political,  economic  and  social  ills ;  but  the  opera- 
tion released  latent  energies  uniting  the  waning 
members  of  the  body — and  it  is  just  possible  that 
the  future  generations  of  the  Poles  will  look  upon 
the  one  hundred  years  which  were  spent  in  three 
national  hospitals,  under  divers  conditions,  as  the 
period  necessary  to  heal  old  national  diseases.  At 
least  Poland  had  the  chance  to  develop  nationally 
and  culturally  while  the  doctors  were  wallowing  in 
the  political  mire  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

In  Russia  the  government,  after  various  experi- 
ments with  this  fragment  of  a  state,  at  last  tried  to 
crush  Polish  culture  and  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  the  two  being  wedded  and  welded.  The 
aristocracy  and  the  clergy  were  persecuted,  and 
the  peasants  favoured,  with  the  result  that.  In  Rus- 
sian Poland,  the  democratic  spirit  developed  and 
manifests  itself  to-day  in  the  dominance  of  the 
peasant  party  in  the  political  life  of  the  nation. 


150      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

The  Austrian  portion  fared  better  and  at  the 
same  time  worse.  The  Hapsburgs  exalted  aristoc- 
racy. PoHsh  statesmen  rose  high  in  Austrian  ad- 
ministration and  in  the  army,  the  peasants  were 
exploited,  Polish  art  and  culture  throve,  and  over 
the  city  of  Crakow  hovered  the  shadow  of  Athens. 
To  Crakow  the  patriotic  Poles  came  to  weep  over 
the  tombs  of  Polish  kings,  and  to  it  they  sent 
their  sons  to  steep  themselves  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Polish  past. 

In  Germany  the  Poles  fared  the  best,  and  felt 
the  worst.  The  weapons  which  were  used  to  kill 
the  Polish  spirit  were  the  German  language,  Ger- 
man culture  and  German  efficiency.  The  province 
of  Posen,  as  it  was  called,  developed  economically 
with  the  rest  of  the  German  Empire ;  but  while  the 
Germans  are  good  schoolmasters,  they  are  not 
good  pedagogues.  They  made  no  allowance  for 
national  and  racial  peculiarities,  and  the  Poles  re- 
mained Poles,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  learned 
the  German  language  and  German  methods  of 
trade  and  administration.  A  hundred  years  of 
political  struggle  are  over  and  the  victory  is  won, 
in  spite  of  hangings,  shootings,  deportations,  flat- 
teries, and  economic  and  social  pressure. 

I  have  lived,  then,  to  see  a  free  and  reunited  Po- 
land, the  first  and  most  convincing  evidence  of 
which  was  the  crowding  of  Polish  soldiers  into  my 
compartment,  their  demanding  the  cozy  corners 
and    my  spending  the  whole  night  contemplat- 


MADAM  POLAND  151 

ing  the  booted  legs  of  a  portion  of  the   PoHsh 
army. 

The  sky  was  growing  gray  as  the  sun  struggled 
through  banks  of  clouds  when  I  looked  out  upon  a 
typical  Polish  landscape,  flat  as  North  Dakota, 
soft,  wet  and  swampy  as  Arkansas,  as  desolate 
as  "  No  Man's  Land."  In  Belgium  and  France 
one  sees  at  least  noble  ruins,  and  posterity  will 
have  its  thrills  in  looking  upon  ruined  and 
damaged  cathedrals  and  castles;  the  latter,  in- 
deed, often  gaining  in  beauty  by  being  partly  de- 
molished. 

There  are  no  ruins  on  the  Eastern  Front;  only 
devastation.  There  is  nothing  for  the  eye,  of 
pleasure  or  of  pleasurable  pain;  only  desolation. 
Cities  one  with  the  mire,  and  villages  one  with  the 
dust.  Zigzagging  trenches  and  unhealed  earth 
offend  the  eye,  then  suddenly  comes  a  piece  of 
plowed  ground  over  which  an  American  tractor 
moves,  with  an  American  boy  driving  it.  A  peas- 
ant stands  by  watching  the  chugging  monster  on 
its  rounds.  He  cannot  understand  this  phenome- 
non. 

Four  years  ago  these  same  "  gasoline  horses  " 
destroyed  his  harvest.  The  men  who  drove  them 
came  from  "  God  knows  where  "  and  moved  on 
into  the  unknown,  leaving  ruin.  That  he  could 
grasp — that  was  "  Voyna  "  War — God  ordained, 
or  devil  ordained,  ordained  it  was;  but  this  thing, 
of  a  man's  coming  from  over  the  seas  to  plow  with 


152      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

one  of  those  "  stinking  horses,"  and  bringing  his 
seed  with  him,  asking  no  wage,  accepting  no 
thanks — that  is  beyond  him. 

He  is  one  of  the  thousands  of  peasant  refugees 
who  are  now  drifting  back  to  the  native  soil, 
shell-strewn,  thistle-grown  soil,  and  to  his  house, 
the  thatch  consumed  by  fire  and  the  bricks  in  a 
confused  heap;  but  the  hearth  is  still  black  from 
the  fires  the  housewife  had  kindled,  and  around  it 
with  boughs  from  the  forest  and  mud  from  the 
river  he  rebuilds  his  habitation,  more  like  a 
beaver's  than  a  human  being's. 

They  have  suffered,  these  peasants,  without  the 
consolation  of  some  past  wrong  avenged  or 
righted,  or  some  good  to  come  out  of  it  for  their 
children.  They  are  largely  Ruthenians,  living  in 
Poland,  but  not  Poles;  alienated,  not  assimilated, 
a  pathetic  minority  which  brought  all  the  sacri- 
fices and  has  not  received  even  the  imaginary  bene- 
fits of  the  war. 

They  were  the  dirt  under  the  feet  of  all  the 
armies.  The  Russians  drove  them  into  the  moun- 
tains, the  Hungarians  pushed  them  back,  and  the 
Germans  trampled  upon  them,  until  they  were 
swept  into  Russia  and  Siberia,  and  even  beyond; 
lost  for  years  in  a  strange,  Inhospitable  world. 
Some  day,  when  the  great  romances  about  the  war 
are  written,  the  most  tragic  material  will  be  found 
on  this  Eastern  Front,  In  the  flight  and  return  of 
these  peasant  folk,  who  had  no  pleading  friends. 


MADAM  POLAND  153 

no  eager  defenders,  like  Belgium  and  France,  until 
now,  when  it  is  almost  too  late. 

As  one  travels  west  and  north,  there  is  less 
devastation.  New  thatches  show  that  life  has  be- 
gun its  normal  rounds,  groups  of  crosses  dot  the 
landscape,  marking  the  graves  of  Germans,  Hun- 
garians, and  Russians,  buried  where  they  stood 
and  died,  the  armies  marching  over  them. 

There  are  rutted  roadways  over  which  wretched 
peasants  in  more  wretched  carts,  drawn  by  most 
wretched  horses,  are  going  to  market.  Polish 
Jews  creep  past  in  drear  black,  their  pathetic  faces 
wearing  a  hunted  look,  their  best  of  life,  miserable 
enough,  in  the  past,  and  living  its  worst  to-day. 
Then  the  huts  huddled  more  closely,  the  tracks 
multiplied,  low  and  crowded  tenements  rose  to 
uniform  height,  cheerless,  block  upon  block,  tall 
chimneys  and  church  steeples  appeared,  and  we 
pulled  into  Warsaw,  the  capital  of  Poland. 

It  is  an  interesting,  sprawling,  modern  city,  hav- 
ing far  outgrown  its  picturesque  centre,  colourful 
with  its  touch  of  the  middle  ages.  Streets  radiate 
in  all  directions,  straight,  and  solemn,  and  plain; 
tenements  are  crowded  by  a  joyless  population, 
and  one  hears  neither  laughter  nor  music.  Both 
are  drowned  in  the  pitiless  struggle  for  existence. 
A  million  or  more  people  live  in  Warsaw,  drawn 
like  moths  to  the  flame,  or  driven  in  by  the  war, 
like  sheep  into  a  pen. 

It  is  a  tolerably  clean  city,  having  reached  the 


154      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

Pharisaic  standard,  as  well  as  or  better  than  Chi- 
cago ;  but  the  "  inside  of  the  cup  " !  Ah,  "  There's 
the  rub." 

Warsaw  shares  the  pride  of  all  the  new  made 
capitals.  It  is  full  of  soldiers,  a  goodly  portion  of 
the  army  seeming  to  be  quartered  in  and  around 
the  city.  Six  hundred  thousand  of  them  in  Po- 
land, eating  their  daily  bread  by  the  sweat  of  the 
poor,  overworked  and  underfed  population. 

The  spirit  of  war  permeates  Warsaw.  War 
machines  hum  in  the  *'  heavens  above,"  and  rattle 
over  the  "  earth  beneath,"  Bolshevik  prisoners  are 
paraded  on  the  Boulevard,  and  all  the  ills  which 
follow  war,  hunger,  dirt  and  disease  are  rampant 
in  the  streets.  Perhaps  nowhere  is  prostitution  so 
open  and  so  insolent,  nor  so  many  women  who 
seem  mere  children,  engaged  in  the  frightful  traffic. 

Yet  Warsaw  is  lovable,  with  a  soft,  tender, 
feminine  sort  of  beauty;  especially  as  I  have 
watched  her  skyline  from  the  Vistula  at  sunset,  or 
looked  down  upon  her  Cathedral  Square  from  the 
windows  in  the  exquisite  apartments  of  my  hos- 
pitable hostess.  Ten  years  ago  I  looked  down 
upon  the  same  Square,  the  Russian  church,  with 
its  bulbous  bell-tower,  the  sun  bright  on  its 
golden  roofs  and  shining  crosses,  enhancing  its 
barbaric  splendour.  I  am  partial  to  Byzantine  ar- 
chitecture, and  this  church,  a  masterpiece,  a  replica 
of  the  Saviour's  Church  in  Moscow,  relieved  the 
tameness  and  drab  modernness  of  Warsaw's  sky- 


MADAM  POLAND  155 

line.  However,  it  was  an  eyesore  to  the  people  of 
that  city,  as  it  was  built  with  no  pious  intent  but  to 
emphasize  Russian  dominance  and  to  proclaim  its 
permanence.  Cossacks  were  riding  the  streets, 
swinging  menacing  whips,  while  stolid  Russian 
soldiers  guarded  the  intersections;  for  Poland's 
chronic  revolt  had  broken  out  violently,  and  the 
attack  was  directed  against  this  sacred  edifice. 

My  hostess  recently  was  the  hostess  then.  I 
owe  her  too  much  for  her  gracious  hospitality  to 
say  that  her  beauty  has  faded  in  the  intervening 
years,  and  if  gratitude  did  not  restrain  me,  gal- 
lantry would. 

Hers  was  a  proud,  defiant,  cameo-like  face  with 
a  delicately  modelled,  straight  nose,  a  firm,  exquis- 
ite chin,  and  lustrous  eyes  in  which  one  could  see 
memory  and  hope ;  for  a  few  days  before  she  had 
buried  her  son  who  was  slain  in  her  doorv\^ay. 
"  Pro  Patria  MortL" 

Now  the  outlines  of  her  face  seem  blurred, 
the  glow  in  her  eyes  is  clouded  by  mist,  her  head 
so  proudly  poised  is  bowed.  As  I  anticipated  see- 
ing her  joy  in  the  moment  of  Poland's  long-de- 
ferred triumph,  I  pictured  her  exquisite  beyond 
words,  and,  frankly,  I  was  disappointed.  All  she 
hoped  for  and  believed  might  be  realized  in  fifty  or 
a  hundred  years  has  come  in  less  than  ten,  with  far 
less  sacrifice  and  much  larger  fullness  than  she 
imagined. 

The  offending  church  is  still  there,  but  the  gold 


166      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOKDEKS 

is  ripped  from  the  roofs,  the  crosses  have  been 
melted  into  cannon,  the  bell-tower  is  being  demol- 
ished to  satisfy  patriotic  ardour,  and  the  church  it- 
self is  being  saved  only  by  the  strategy  of  the 
Archbishop  who  consecrated  it,  and  pronounced  it 
the  Cathedral  of  his  diocese. 

However,  a  Russian  governmental  building,  all 
done  in  gorgeous  tile,  has  been  stripped  of  its 
beauty  and  riddled  by  bullets  so  that  now  it  looks 
as  if  pitted  by  smallpox.  My  hostess  ought  to  be 
prouder  and  more  beautiful  now  than  ever,  for 
Polish  regiments  lined  the  square,  cannons 
boomed  and  bands  were  playing  the  national  an- 
them. 

It  was  the  fifth  of  May.  Ascension  Day  in  the 
church  calendar,  it  was  also  the  centenary  celebra- 
tion of  Napoleon's  death,  and  the  two  occasions 
blended  in  the  pomp  and  ritual  provided  by  the 
church.  The  initials  of  the  Corsican  and  those  of 
the  Nazarene,  met  upon  the  high  altar  erected  in 
the  centre  of  the  square,  and  I  suggested,  "  mali- 
ciously," my  hostess  said,  that  Poland  was  celebrat- 
ing the  ascent  of  Jesus  and  the  descent  of  Napo- 
leon. She  grew  eloquent  in  narrating  Polish  his- 
tory and  Napoleon's  part  in  arousing  the  Polish 
National  Spirit,  in  recognition  of  which,  this  High 
Mass  and  also  the  renaming  of  a  city  square  as 
"Napoleon  Place." 

Again  I  brought  a  cloud  upon  her  face  when  I 
suggested  that  a  hundred  years  after  the  demise  of 


MADAM  POLAND  157 

Wllhelm  II  there  may  be  a  similar  celebration;  for 
without  Kaiser  Wilhelm  the  freedom  of  Poland 
might  have  tarried ;  and  that  perhaps  by  then,  the 
"  Napoleon  Place  "  will  be  rebaptized  in  the  ex- 
Kaiser's  honour  and  blessed  by  his  name. 

Just  then,  fortunately  for  me,  the  celebrants 
lifted  their  holy  symbols,  Pilsudsky,  surrounded 
by  his  staff,  led  a  visiting  French  commission  to 
the  seats  of  honour,  and  the  vast  multitudes  with 
bared  heads  pressed  forward  for  a  closer  view  of 
their  idol.  I  suspect  that  when  he  had  his  picture 
taken,  copies  of  which  cover  a  good  deal  of  War- 
saw, the  photographer  said  to  him,  "  Now  look 
fierce,"  His  is  a  mild  and  pleasant  face;  though 
his  counterfeit  makes  him  look  like  a  cross  be- 
tween Napoleon  the  Great  and  Ivan  the  Terrible. 

Polish  soldiers,  who  adore  him,  are  undersized, 
their  uniforms  the  discard  of  many  armies,  chiefly 
American;  they  look  underfed,  and  while  I  have 
no  doubt  about  their  patriotism  and  religious  ar- 
dour, I  am  quite  sure  that  the  thought  uppermost 
or  nethermost  in  their  minds  was  of  their  next 
meal,  and  the  hope  that  it  would  contain  meat. 

The  gallant  Polish  officers  pled  politely  with 
the  throng,  and  firemen  with  their  gleaming  hel- 
mets held  on  to  the  ropes  which  saved  tlie  space 
allotted  to  distinguished  visitors.  The  Polish 
Marine,  which  looked  suspiciously  Teutonic  and 
minded  me  of  the  stewards  of  the  Hamburg- 
American  liners,   reinforced  the  strength  of  the 


158      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDESS 

army  and  the  firemen.  Fortunately  the  High 
Mass  was  curtailed,  and  as  the  dignitaries  de- 
scended from  the  altar,  the  lines  broke  and  the  en- 
thusiastic throng  became  one  with  the  chiefs  of 
the  church  and  nation,  and  moved  toward  the 
square  which  was  to  be  named  in  holy  baptism 
after  the  great  Napoleon,  who,  if  he  were  aware 
of  it,  would  wonder  why  this  honour  is  paid  him. 

I  have  intimated  tliat  my  hostess'  beauty  is  not 
the  same  as  it  was.  The  truth  is  that  she  is  dis- 
illusioned, and  It  is  reflected  in  her  face.  She  said 
with  a  sigh :  "  Yes,  there  was  a  great  moment 
which  recompensed  for  all  the  suffering  of  the 
past.     Poland  was  free!     There  was  a  universal 

embrace,  a  marvellous  ecstasy !  "     She  tried 

to  describe  that  golden  moment;  but  her  lips 
quivered  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  re- 
membrance of  it  brought  back  the  old  beauty  for 
an  instant,  then  It  faded  again,  and  she  com- 
plained: "There  is  lack  of  order,  there  is  graft, 
incompetency,  class  struggle,  hate.  Ingratitude 
and  a  new  hunger  which  is  not  for  freedom  but 
for  dominance." 

This  time  I  tried  to  comfort  her.  I  pled  the 
few  years  and  the  inexperience,  the  general  un- 
rest. I  reassured  her,  though  I  am  not  over- 
sanguine  about  Poland's  to-morrow. 

My  hostess  and  I  had  been  to  visit  a  milk  dis- 
tributing station.  A  mob  filled  the  courtyard. 
Old  men,  young  men,  women  and  children,  a  piti- 


MADAM  POLAND  159 

able,  struggling  mass  pushing  toward  a  window 
where  the  coveted  tickets  are  distributed.  Behind 
the  window  stood  frantic  women  who  feared  the 
place  would  be  stormed.  I  suggested  the  forming 
of  a  line.  A  line  had  been  formed,  they  said,  two 
in  fact,  one  for  the  women  with  babies  and  one  for 
those  without.  However,  as  the  lines  met  at  the 
window,  each  coming  from  an  opposite  direction 
and  pushing  against  the  other,  the  result  was 
bloody  noses,  torn  and  tattered  garments  and  a 
mob,  not  a  queue.  I  do  not  pose  as  a  tamer  of 
mobs,  but  a  few  calm  words,  the  pulling  asunder 
of  female  combatants,  one  line  formed  and  the 
distribution  was  made  quickly  and  peacefully. 
Simple  indeed.  Strange  that  no  one  thought  of  it 
before.  The  same  confusion  reigns  in  railroad 
stations,  post-offices,  everywhere.  Verily,  I  can- 
not keep  all  Poland  in  line. 

"  There  are  graft  and  dishonesty,"  my  hostess 
whispered  between  sips  of  chocolate ;  and  there  are, 
as  all  relief  agencies  can  testify.  Every  one  seems 
corrupted  and  nothing  is  safe.  This,  of  course,  is 
not  peculiar  to  Poland.  One  has  to  be  on  one's 
guard  everywhere,  for  the  war  has  knocked  recti- 
tude into  a  "  cocked  hat  "  all  over  Europe ;  but  the 
fact  that  Austria  could  not  send  anv  more  throudi 
trains  to  Warsaw  because  fourteen  passenger 
coaches  had  been  stolen,  does  seem  a  little  un- 
usual. 

My  hostess  tried  to  be  apologetic  about  Poland's 


160      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

foreign  policy.  "  After  all,"  she  said,  "  White 
Russia  is  a  sort  of  *  no  man's  land.'  Vilna  ought 
to  belong  to  Poland,  and  as  for  Ukrania — ah, 
well!  We  just  tried  to  save  it  from  the  Bolshe- 
viki." 

This  is  a  poor  time  to  apologize,  for  there  are 
inflammatory  posters  everywhere,  bidding  the 
populace  come  to  the  rescue  of  Upper  Silesia,  and 
civilians  are  drilling  by  the  banks  of  the  Vistula. 
Relief  agencies  cannot  get  cars  to  carry  seed  to 
starving  Eastern  Poland,  because  soldiers  and 
ammunitions  are  being  sent  to  help  enlarge  Po- 
land's borders  v/estward.  Warsaw  is  thronged 
with  soldiers,  and  is  reminiscent  of  Berlin  in  its 
most  militaristic  days ;  military  autos  rush  through 
the  streets,  bombing  planes  whirr  aloft.  Count- 
less pitiable  beggars  and  half-starved  children  con- 
front one,  and  there  are  a  hundred  thousand  chil- 
dren of  school  age  without  instruction,  in  Warsaw 
alone. 

Quoting  the  title  of  Sienkiewicz's  well-known 
story,  "  Quo  Vadis,"  I  asked  my  hostess: 
"Whither  are  you  going?"  And  she  replied: 
"Ask  France." 

She  continued :  "  We  have  an  army  but  no  great 
military  genius;  we  are  embroiled  in  European 
politics  and  have  not  one  statesman." 

Pilsudsky  she  dismissed  with  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  and  when  I  mentioned  the  present  Pre- 
mier, Witos,  she  smiled  derisively. 


MADAM  POLAND  161 

"Al-i,  that  is  what  hurts.  This  is  a  peasant's 
government.  No  wonder  there  is  no  efficiency. 
The  country  is  in  debt  and  the  currency  debased. 
The  palaces  of  the  aristocracy  are  commandeered 
and  they  are  all  out  on  their  estates,  while  the 
peasants  run  the  government." 

I  reminded  her  of  the  fact  that  the  so-called 
aristocracy  and  governing  class  has  made  a  sorry 
mess  of  the  past,  and  that  anyway  it  does  not  take 
much  brains  to  run  a  country. 

She  insists  that  Witos  is  a  fraud,  that  he  rides 
in  a  private  car,  but  just  before  he  reaches  his  own 
village  he  steps  into  a  third-class  coach.  "  In 
Warsaw  he  lives  like  a  prince  and  at  home  like  a 
peasant." 

I  am  afraid  that  my  hostess  is  in  the  realm  of 
myths.  The  fact  is  that  Witos  is  a  shrewd  but 
honest  peasant,  and  the  aristocracy  have  neither 
characteristic  in  abundance. 

"  W^hat  has  become  of  Paderewsky?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Have  you  asked  any  one  else  that  question?  '* 
she  asked  in  return. 

"  Yes,  and  the  answer  is  that  he  was  a  great 
piano  player.  The  fact  is  that  I  have  never  heard 
his  name  mentioned  although  I  was  three  weeks  in 
Poland.  I  have  not  seen  his  picture  anywhere, 
even  in  music  stores,  though  I  peered  into  every 
show  window." 

Republics  are  ungrateful,"  my  hostess  said. 


ft 


162      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

"  Certainly   Paderewsky   deserved   better   of    Po- 
land." 

She  invited  a  company  of  her  intimate  friends 
to  five  o'clock  tea,  and  before  their  arrival  she  took 
me  through  her  picture  gallery.  There  were 
mostly  historic  pictures,  a  few  by  Matejko,  the 
greatest  of  Poland's  patriot  painters.  I  criticized 
not  the  colours  or  the  drawing,  but  the  Grand 
Opera  style  of  depicting  the  past,  the  ornate,  ideal- 
ized way  of  presenting  the  struggles  of  yesterday. 
I  wonder  if  my  hostess'  depression  is  not  due  to 
the  fact  that,  seeing  modern  history,  she  finds  it 
commonplace  and  colourless.  The  modern  heroes 
are  not  so  colossal,  the  events  not  so  picturesque, 
the  devotion  not  so  pure.  She  told  me,  and  she  is 
right,  that  Poland's  hope  was  kept  alive  by  this 
idealization  of  the  past.  I  apologized  for  having 
criticized,  but  her  face  clouded  again;  for  he 
who  casts  doubt  upon  the  complete  glory  of  Po- 
land's past  is  worse  than  he  who  suspects  that 
King  Solomon  was  not  as  wise  as  his  reputation 
warrants  us  in  believing. 

The  company  assembled.  A  judge  of  the  High 
Court,  professors  of  the  University,  church  dig- 
nitaries, artists  and  officers.  There  were  many 
osculatory  greetings,  after  which  tea  was  served 
and  I  was  asked  to  speak. 

I  had  left  the  United  States,  glad  that  for  a 
while  I  could  rest  from  prophesying,  and  here  I 
was  being  urged  to  speak  where  a  plain  word 


MADAM  POLAND  163 

might  be  more  dangerous  than  in  the  United 
States.  I  am  a  friend  of  Poland,  and  known  as 
such  by  my  past  record,  so  I  felt  a  rare  freedom 
of  utterance.  I  had  also  the  saving  background  of 
the  Quaker  Mission,  which  has  the  reputation  of 
being  impartial  and  non-political;  so  I  began  by 
interpreting  its  work  and  its  message.  I  told 
of  what  I  had  seen  on  the  Eastern  Front,  a  devas- 
tation even  more  cruel  than  that  in  the  West. 
Peasants  driven  from  their  homes  and  wandering 
as  far  as  India  and  back  again,  scarcely  able  to 
identify  the  place  where  their  village  stood.  I 
showed  samples  of  bread  made  of  acorns  and  oak 
leaves,  bitter  and  scarce,  and  acting  upon  the  vitals 
like  tannic  acid.  I  had  pictures  of  American  trac- 
tors guided  by  English  and  American  Quaker  boys 
who  plow  furrows  between  unhealed  trenches, 
pyramids  of  barbed  wire  and  war  wastage,  I  told 
of  half  a  dozen  normal  schools  and  colleges  in 
which  the  future  leaders  of  Poland  live,  in  squalor 
and  misery.  I  spoke  of  brave  women  delous- 
ing  the  population  in  the  midst  of  a  typhus  epi- 
demic, and  I  asked  timidly  whether  this  is  the  time 
to  continue  wars  and  tlie  preparation  for  future 
wars. 

As  I  have  the  saving  grace  of  humour  T  pro- 
voked smiles  and  tears,  and  they  soothed  the 
wounds  made  by  a  faithful  friend.  There  was 
genuine  applause,  followed  by  promises  of  cooper- 
ation, and  here  be  it  said,  the  promises  were  kept. 


164      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Little  knots  of  men  and  women  gathered  around 
me  and  there  was  further  discussion. 

I  remember  the  professor  of  Pedagogy  of  the 
University  of  Warsaw.  I  shall  remember  his  face 
always.  A  tender,  sweet,  manly  face;  but  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  have  a  hundred  years  of  struggle  behind 
us,"  he  said.  "  Our  strength  has  been  consumed 
in  achieving  freedom,  our  youth  has  lived  for  that 
ideal.  We  need  friends  who  will  aid  us  in  taking 
the  next  step." 

I  asked  him  one  question,  "  Is  militaristic 
France  the  friend  you  need  now  ?  "  He  did  not 
answer  the  question. 

"  You  must  not  be  discouraged  about  your  coun- 
try," I  said  to  my  hostess  when  I  bade  her  good- 
bye, and  It  seemed  strange  that  I  had  to  speak  the 
words  of  courage.  "  You  are  at  least  a  nation. 
In  Posen,  Galicia  and  here  in  former  Russian  Po- 
land the  cultural  and  economic  cleavage  is  gone. 
Of  course  I  know  that  Posen  is  conservative  and 
is  suspicious  of  Warsaw,  which  it  thinks  radical. 
Galicia  is  aristocratic  and  fears  both ;  but  the  peo- 
ple are  Poles  everywhere  and  think  Polish.  You 
have  little  or  nothing  to  fear  from  Bolshevism; 
your  labouring  element  is  patriotic  and  so  are  the 
farmers  and  business  men.  Nowhere  In  all  my 
travels  have  I  found  a  more  united  national  feeling 
than  In  this  new,  old  Poland,  and  that  Is  a  great 
deal. 


MADAM  POLAND  165 

"  To  guide  and  restrain  this  national  feeling,  to 
begin  to  make  its  strength  productive,  to  turn  its 
attention  to  the  reclamation  of  land  and  the  educa- 
tion of  its  youth,  that  is  the  immediate  task,  and 
you,  my  dear  lady,  you  must  go  to  work  and  do 
your  part.  As  you  have  worked  and  suffered  to 
make  Poland  free,  you  must  work  and  if  need  be 
suffer  to  make  it  turn  from  the  past  to  the  future, 
from  conquest  to  labour." 

She  pressed  my  hand;  I  kissed  hers  gallantly. 
She  had  grown  strangely  beautiful  again,  as  she 
turned  her  face  from  the  tragic  past  and  the  uncer- 
tain present  to  the  hopeful  future. 


XVI 

THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE 

IT  is  a  dull,  gray  Europe  which  I  shall  remem- 
ber, with  just  a  touch  of  colour  here  and 
there,  like  "  ashes  of  roses  "  after  a  sunset. 
The  rest  is  a  blanket  of  storm  clouds  not  quite 
emptied  of  menace;  rumbling  thunder  from  the 
west,  flaming  flares  of  red  from  the  east,  now 
spreading  far,  threatening  all  the  sky,  then  show- 
ing but  torn  patches  of  a  passing  storm.  There 
is  no  memory  of  bright  days,  hardly  even  mo- 
ments, to  bring  back  as  "  souvenirs  of  the  occa- 
sion," with  which  to  enrich  my  standardized  ex- 
istence in  America,  moving  in  a  well-ordered  way, 
between  nationally  advertised  breakfast  foods  and 
the  village  curfew. 

Perhaps  my  spectacles  were  misty,  and  I  saw 
but  gray,  where  I  might  have  seen  blue  skies. 
Perhaps  following  a  breadline  is  a  poor  way  of 
seeing  Europe;  but  the  breadline  is  the  "beaten 
path  "  these  days,  and  one  visits  the  soup  kitchens 
rather  than  the  museums,  sees  proletarian  anguish 
instead  of  Murillo's  Holy  Family,  and  one  cannot 
admire  monuments,  when  so  many  pedestals  are 
for  rent. 

The  unusual  in  Europe  soon  became  the  usual 

166 


THE  MIIsD  OF  EUEOPE  167 

to  me,  and  when  thousands  of  underfed,  tuber- 
cular children  had  tramped  through  my  heart,  it 
became  incapable  of  more  than  wholesale  pity. 
There  is  no  outstanding  experience;  no  visit  to 
some  quiet  spot  where  the  war  has  not  torn,  hurt, 
maimed  or  killed  something  or  some  one.  The 
war  has  standardized  Europe,  the  great  steam- 
roller has  pressed  it  flat,  the  mills  of  the  gods 
have  ground  both  fast  and  fine,  and  have  pro- 
duced the  same  grist  everywhere. 

In  the  little  Slovak  villages  I  heard  conversa- 
tions which  had  the  same  trend  as  in  Challons- 
sur-Marne.  I  found  the  political  muddle-headed- 
ness  of  Paris  in  Belgrade,  and  when  I  fled  to 
Switzerland  for  the  gladness  of  the  mountains 
and  the  joy  of  being  among  the  unhurt,  it  was 
aching  in  the  same  joints  as  the  rest  of  the  con- 
tinent. 

Switzerland  was  not  invaded  by  soldiers,  but 
by  armies  of  spies  and  refugees,  who  came  with 
paper  wealth,  which  at  first  enriched  merchants 
and  hotel-keepers,  and  then  Impoverished  them. 
Cantonal  ties  were  badly  strained  by  racial  and 
cultural  sympathies;  Bolshevism  emboldened  the 
poor  and  frightened  the  rich.  Switzerland  be- 
came the  center  of  financial  operations  In  the  vari- 
ous depreciated  currencies  of  the  continent;  she 
had  the  usual  crop  of  war  profiteers  as  well  as  the 
hard-pressed  middle  class,  and  the  awakened 
proletariat. 


168      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

The  high  cost  of  living  was  the  topic  of  conver- 
sation everywhere ;  among  the  educated  as  well  as 
among  the  ignorant;  for  the  stomach  knows  no 
culture-line,  and  if  the  profiteers  escape  the  hot- 
test terrors  of  hell,  it  will  not  be  because  I  have 
not  heard  them  consigned  to  it,  in  many  languages 
and  picturesque  similies. 

Everywhere  I  found  the  financial  circus  in  full 
swing.  Currency  taking  leaps  from  almost  noth- 
ing to  a  little  more  than  something,  the  American 
dollar  being  the  aerial  gymnast,  the  German  mark 
performing  on  the  parallel  bar;  while  the  Aus- 
trian kronen  and  the  Polish  marks  were  the 
clowns,  rolling  in  the  sawdust,  once  in  a  while 
making  a  handspring  in  a  feeble  hope  of  strength, 
but  invariably  landing  on  their  backs,  to  the 
amusement  and  profit  of  those  who  sat  in  the  re- 
served seats,  but  the  despair  of  the  many  on  the 
top  rows. 

To  the  anxiety  of  "what  shall  we  eat?"  has 
been  added  a  new  one:  "where  shall  we  live?" 
There  is  a  housing  shortage  everywhere,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Petrograd,  from  which  a 
good  part  of  the  population  has  moved,  thus  leav- 
ing houses  for  much  needed  fuel  through  the 
many  hard  winters. 

The  most  anathematized  man  In  Europe  is  the 
landlord,  who  has  had  his  traditional  rapacity 
curbed ;  for  while  living  costs  have  risen  one  hun- 
dred and  one  thousand  per  cent.,  he  may  raise  his 


1 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  169 

rent  but  twenty  per  cent.  He  has  had  his  revenge, 
an  unprofitable  one  on  the  whole.  He  has  made 
no  repairs  and  no  improvements,  with  the  result 
that  the  cities  look  shabby  from  neglect,  walls  are 
murky  from  dust  and  soot,  and  a  "  perfectly 
good "  American  advertisement  is  obsolete. 
There  is  no  more  "  Spotless  Town." 

There  are,  however,  no  homeless  people ;  for  the 
law,  almost  uniform  through  Central  Europe,  al- 
lows only  a  certain  number  of  rooms  per  person, 
varying  somewhat  according  to  the  tenant's  rank 
and  station.  Everybody  takes  roomers,  and  it  is 
an  unassorted  world  which  is  thrown  together 
into  hovels  and  palaces,  making  the  best  of  a  bad 
situation. 

The  extraordinary  joys  I  shared,  were  the  drop 
in  the  cost  of  living,  the  temporary  recovery  of 
the  value  of  money,  the  discovery  that  a  young 
couple  might  begin  housekeeping,  by  virtue  of  the 
fact  that  somebody  had  departed  this  life,  or  been 
squeezed  into  closer  quarters  by  a  relentless  law. 

The  feast  for  the  eye  was — not  a  new  triumph 
of  architecture  or  an  exquisite  painting,  but  a 
side  of  bacon  in  a  butcher's  shop,  or  a  window 
full  of  shoes,  both  of  American  origin. 

The  best  of  men  everywhere  are  not  thinking 
how  to  conform  their  lives  to  high  Ideals,  that 
they  may  escape  the  punishment  hereafter — but 
how  to  escape  the  tax  and  the  customs  collectors. 
Dante  would  have  a  new  vision  of  purgatory  were 


170      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

he  travelling  through  Central  Europe  to-day,  and 
had  to  pass  the  newly-made  boundaries. 

The  poor  who  were  always  poor  are  serene. 
They  are  used  to  the  empty  larder,  to  scarce  and 
bitter  bread,  with  meat  only  on  rare  occasions. 
And  there  was  always  the  "  Bon  JDieu  "  and  "  Der 
Gute  Gott "  who  has  never  forsaken  them.  The 
miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  has  been  per- 
formed again,  and  there  were  also  the  basketfuls 
with  enough  fragments  to  feed  the  stai-ving  Rus- 
sians. 

That  "  Charity  covers  a  multitude  of  sins  "  was 
never  more  true  than  now,  when  there  are  so 
many  sins  to  cover:  individual  sins,  national  sins, 
and  the  sins  of  the  whole  human  race. 

The  war  stimulated  in  men  certain  virtues — de- 
votion, courage,  self-sacrifice,  cooperation  on  a 
vast  scale,  and  the  affiliation  of  peoples,  far  apart 
in  the  race  and  social  scale.  But  the  brute  self, 
which  had  to  be  fed  by  hate,  grew  hungrier  the 
more  it  devoured ;  the  holy  flame  burnt  lower  and 
lower,  patriotism  became  a  cloak  for  profiteering, 
the  broken  barriers  rose  again,  and  Brotherhood 
was  an  empty  dream. 

As  an  earthquake  alters  the  face  of  the  earth, 
so  the  war  has  created  its  own  mental,  social,  and 
spiritual  geography.  It  has  torn  new  chasms  be- 
tween nations,  between  neighbours  and  fellow- 
citizens.  The  teachings  of  science  which  proved 
the  relationships  of  everything  living,  the  new  in- 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  171 

sight  vv'hich  saw  no  barriers  between  matter  and 
spirit,  Christianity  with  its  faith  in  the  Father- 
hood of  God  and  its  practice  of  the  Brotherhood 
of  Man,  are  now  opposed  by  new  obstacles  be- 
tween race  and  race,  class  and  class,  shades  of  re- 
ligion, and  social  and  economic  doctrines. 

The  greed  for  power  masks  itself  behind  race 
struggle.  Pan-Germanism  and  Pan-Slavism,  the 
sowers  of  the  seed  of  the  last  war,  are  being  dis- 
placed by  new  slogans  pregnant  with  new  wars. 

Anti-Semitism  grows  more  virulent,  the  rela- 
tionships between  Roman  Catholics  and  Protes- 
tants are  not  improved,  the  Socialist  class  war  is 
being  fought  openly,  and  the  ancient  gulf  between 
the  rich  and  poor  has  become  wider. 

The  newly-made  rich  are  callous  to  the  suffer- 
ing of  the  poor,  neither  their  right  hand  nor  their 
left  hand  knowing  what  foreign  hands  are  doing 
in  saving  the  masses  from  semi-starvation,  and 
the  new  generation  from  growing  up  with  the  ef- 
fects of  rickets  and  tuberculosis  unassuaged.  I 
saw  the  poor  in  Abraham's  bosom,  and  the  rich 
with  unslacked  thirst,  crying  for  the  cooling 
drink.  Erratic  plays,  grotesque  cabarets,  liqueurs 
with  strange  **  kicks,"  dances  with  new  contor- 
tions, a  mad  race  for  more  wealth,  a  struggle 
against  new  taxes,  and  dark  schemings  to  evade 
the  laws. — are  their  pleasant  tortures.  I  left  my 
ricli  friends  with  loathing  and  some  of  my  kin- 
dred were  to  me  as  strangers.    The  poor  I  found 


172      OLD  TEAILS  Aim  NEW  BOEDERS 

blessed,  and  I  also  was  blessed  by  their  suffering, 
borne  without  complaint. 

The  beggars  in  rags  and  vermin,  displaying 
their  agonies,  seemed  to  me  beautiful.  In  compari- 
son with  the  rich,  in  their  vulgar  display  of 
wealth,  all  too  common  in  Vienna,  Berlin,  War- 
saw and  Budapest — the  cities  of  great  sorrow  and 
great  need. 

Concert  halls,  theaters,  and  opera-houses  are 
crowded  as  never  before,  with  the  choicest  seats  at 
a  premium ;  but  true  art  is  at  a  low  level.  Artists 
have  moved  again  to  the  garrets,  have  tightened 
their  belts,  and  walk  the  streets  like  shadows. 
The  holy  hush  which  used  to  prevail  when  Wag- 
ner was  sung  or  played,  is  no  more,  and  in  one  of 
the  best  boxes  In  the  Berlin  Opera,  war  profiteers 
were  drinking  champagne  and  eating  sausages, 
while  Lohengrin  sang  his  swan-song. 

Since  the  war  no  great  work  of  art  has  been 
produced.  Not  for  want  of  material;  but  the 
wreckage  has  been  so  great,  the  shores  are  so 
thickly  strewn  with  humanity's  water-soaked 
treasures,  that  the  artists  are  stunned,  and  stand 
stupidly  on  the  sands,  watching  the  remorseless 
beating  of  the  waves. 

In  statecraft  the  leaders  are  equally  helpless  and 
stupid.  With  rare  exceptions,  the  people  are 
drifting,  caught  by  the  undertow  of  alliances,  of 
balances  of  power,  economic  selfishness  and  the 
collective  greed  of  nations.     I  met  burgomasters, 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  173 

ministers,  presidents,  and  those  real  rulers  of 
mankind,  the  editors  of  the  great  newspapers; 
after  talking  with  them  I  was  impressed  anew  by 
the  fact  that  when  Solomon  prayed  for  wisdom, 
he  knew  what  rulers  of  people  lack  the  most. 

I  went  to  Europe  a  fairly  modest  man;  but 
after  meeting  some  of  the  leaders  of  mankind,  I 
have  gained  so  much  in  self-esteem  that  I  be- 
lieve, in  a  pinch,  I  might  govern  a  country  or  two, 
without  more  damage  to  them  than  they  are  suf- 
fering now.  That  is  no  reflection  upon  the  men 
who  are  the  present  rulers;  they  may  even  be  an 
improvement  upon  those  from  the  hereditary  rul- 
ing class,  which  they  have  displaced  with  such 
dramatic  suddenness. 

Herr  Friedrich  Ebert,  "  Saddlemaster  by  the 
Grace  of  God,"  was  born  in  a  narrow  street  in 
Heidelberg,  brought  up  in  the  gray  atmosphere 
of  hard  labour  and  poverty,  his  father,  a  man 
with  a  crooked  back,  made  so  by  bending  over  the 
work-bench.  His  mother,  prematurely  tooth- 
less and  aged,  a  shawl  over  her  head,  was  one  of 
those  ghosts  of  women  who  haunt  the  tenements. 
When  she  rocked  the  cradle,  and  sang  her  hush- 
a-bye,  she  did  not  know  tliat  God  would  "  con- 
found the  wise  and  prudent,"  she  did  not  dream 
that  her  son  would  displace  the  mighty  Hohen- 
zollerns,  the  last  and  the  proudest  of  them,  Wil- 
helm  the  Second,  King  of  Prussia  and  Emperor 
of  Germany. 


174      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

Friedrich  Ebert  is  of  medium  height,  given  to 
Germanic  rotundity,  caring  nothing  for  pose, 
knowing  no  studied  gestures;  very  genial,  very 
gracious,  a  fairly  shrewd  politician,  and  a  man  of 
the  people,  remaining  with  the  people  in  spite  of 
place  and  power  beyond  his  wildest  dreams.  He 
saw  all  the  great  ones,  and  the  trained  ones,  and 
those  born  to  rule,  pass  into  oblivion.  Those 
pompous  gentlemen,  those  super-heroes,  shrank 
before  his  eyes,  into  small,  trembling,  frightened 
creatures.  Their  dusty  files — the  springs  from 
which  they  drew  their  political  wisdom — grew 
dustier,  and  failed  to  yield  even  a  drop  of  saving 
wisdom  in  a  great,  national  calamity. 

It  was  Ebert  who  touched  the  button  which 
produced  on  the  historic  film  the  collapse  of  the 
monarchy,  and  the  flight  of  the  Kaiser  into  exile 
and  oblivion. 

In  Vienna  I  was  received  by  Herr  Professor 
Hainisch,  in  the  same  office  in  which  the  ultima- 
tum to  Serbia  was  signed,  the  first  act  in  the  ter- 
rible drama  of  the  World  War. 

Herr  Professor  Hainisch  is  the  successor  of  the 
proud  Hapsburgs,  "Apostolic  Majesties,  Emper- 
ors of  Austria,  Kings  of  Hungary  and  Bohemia," 
grand  dukes  of  a  dozen  duchies,  once  the  rulers 
of  half  the  earth,  theirs  by  conquest,  by  inherit- 
ance, by  dower,  by  intermarriage,  and  by  diplo- 
matic rascalities. 

However,  the  worm  of  death  lay  curled  in  the 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  175 

majestic  curve  of  the  Hapsburgs'  crown.  The 
jewelled  cross  surmounting  it,  the  glittering  gift 
of  one  Pope  and  blessed  by  a  succession  of  Popes, 
drew  darts  of  lightning,  and  did  not  save  the 
heads  which  wore  that  crown  from  the  curses 
which  fell  upon  them. 

Next  to  God  I  was  taught  to  revere  the  old  Em- 
peror Francis  Joseph,  and  in  my  childhood,  I 
stood  for  hours  and  hours  in  the  burning  heat  and 
choking  dust,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him.  Once, 
his  son.  Crown  Prince  Rudolph,  visited  our  town, 
and  I  was  chosen  to  present  him  with  a  bouquet 
of  flowers.  He  listened  tolerantly  to  my  stam- 
mering speech,  and  I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven; 
though  I  wore  patent  leather  shoes,  a  size  too 
small,  a  stiff  collar,  which  sawed  at  my  jugular 
vein,  and  a  suit  of  clothes  made  much  too  large, 
in  anticipation  of  my  next  year's  growth.  What 
matter?  I  saw  royalty,  and  royalty  smiled  at 
me  in  a  royal  way. 

Now  I  have  met  and  spoken  to,  and  shaken  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  rules  in  the  Hapsburg's 
place.  He  wore  a  plain  pair  of  gray  trousers  and 
a  black  Prince  Albert  coat,  and  I  could  offer  him 
an  American  "  smoke "  without  offending  his 
dignity. 

I  saw  the  peasant  Witos,  on  the  streets  of  War- 
saw, all  eyes  fixed  on  him,  the  Premier  of  Po- 
land. From  raising  pigs  to  ruling  a  countr}'!  A 
new  old  country,  a  delicately  poised  country,  in 


176      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

the  keeping  of  a  peasant!  He  has  held  plow- 
handles  but  never  government-handles.  He  is 
middle-aged,  sleepy-looking,  shrewd-eyed,  when 
the  lids  are  lifted,  and  has  a  good  head  when  he 
puts  it  to  work. 

Polish  kings  and  Polish  aristocracy,  velvet- 
coated,  gold-trimmed,  spur-booted  aristocracy, 
replaced  by  a  peasant,  who  tucks  his  trousers  into 
his  boots  and  who,  when  he  opens  parliament,  or 
dissolves  it,  has  a  hard  time  not  to  say:  "  Git  up !  '* 
and  "Whoa!" 

Who  says  one  has  to  be  born  and  trained  to 
govern  people?  After  all,  people  are  like  sheep, 
and  a  farmer  knows  how  to  handle  them. 

I  looked  up  with  reverence  and  awe  to  the 
President  of  the  Czecho-Slovak  Republic,  long 
before  he  was  president,  and  when  no  one,  least 
of  all  he,  modest  man,  once  a  blacksmith's  appren- 
tice, dreamed  of  his  being  one.  Tall,  thin,  ascetic- 
looking,  he  is  the  typical  college  professor,  which 
position  he  attained  by  dint  of  hard  work  and  his 
poor  parents'  sacrificial  toil.  He  was  bom  in  the 
village  of  Hodonin,  a  few  miles  from  my  birth- 
place, and  knowing  his  background  and  his  early 
history,  I  could  scarcely  imagine  him  in  the 
Hradschin,  the  palace  of  the  Bohemian  kings,  peo- 
pled by  the  shadows  of  history  and  the  martyrs 
of  history. 

None  of  them  have  an  easy  task,  these  men 
risen  from  the  ranks,  and  they  need  to  pray  for 


THE  MIND  OP  EUROPE  177 

wisdom  for  themselves  and  for  their  people;  that 
mass  of  unredeemed  selfishness,  called  a  nation. 

All  beaten,  bruised,  crippled  Europe,  is  suffer- 
ing from  a  perverted  nationalism,  a  diseased 
patriotism.  New  hates  have  been  added  to  old 
hates,  and  nations  are  plotting  for  power,  not 
planning  for  peace. 

Exhausted  and  impoverished,  having  nothing 
to  lose,  the  nations  are  the  more  ready  to  fight 
again.  The  war  as  a  lesson  to  humanity  teaches 
that  the  race  is  hopelessly  stupid,  and  that  it  does 
not  learn  anything  from  history. 

France,  all  but  drained  of  her  strength,  is  build- 
ing an  European  wall  of  Jericho,  a  Balkan  Tower 
of  Babel.  Drill  Master  of  half  a  dozen  armies, 
political  mentor  of  nations,  she  is  making  chaos 
of  confusion.  She  is  trusting  to  feeble  reeds,  and 
forming  burning  plots.  "  Her  Kingdom  is  not 
from  thence,"  and  there  are  Frenchmen  who 
know  the  signs  of  the  times — but  "  what  are  a  few 
among  so  many?  " 

And  England,  in  whose  womb  Jacob  and  Esau 
have  struggled  so  long,  in  whose  home  they  have 
bartered  for  birthright;  England,  prophet  and 
profiteer,  despoiler  and  healer  of  nations;  Eng- 
land which  knows — or  ought  to  know — the  things 
which  belong  to  her  peace — still  trusts  in  "  iron 
shard,"  in  battleships,  and  not  "  Good  Will." 

If  France  and  England,  at  the  moment  of  their 
triumph,   had   listened   to  Abraham   Lincoln,   as 


178      OLD  TKAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

they  professed  to  hear  him  in  the  midst  of  the 
struggle,  "  the  wounds  of  Europe  might  have 
been  healed  by  the  charities  of  God,  almost  to  the 
transfiguration  of  humanity."  The  people,  the 
hard-pressed  people,  the  crushed,  crucified  people, 
the  war-mad,  war-weary  people,  and  those  still 
mad  with  revenge,  might  have  crucified  the  men 
who  had  dared  make  a  Christian  peace;  but  hu- 
manity might  have  begun  to  reckon  time  by  a  new 
epoch,  and  the  year  One,  of  our  Lord's  ruling, 
might  have  been  inaugurated. 

The  borders  drawn  at  Versailles  are  but  tem- 
porary, and  are  fields  for  new  battles.  Militarism 
has  been  destroyed  in  one  place,  and  like  the 
plague,  has  been  scattered  broadcast. 

Prague,  Bratoslava,  Warsaw,  Belgrade,  are  in- 
fant Potsdams  waiting  to  grow  up,  and  nowhere 
is  Good  Will  taking  the  place  of  suspicion,  envy 
or  hate.  The  beaten  and  disarmed  countries  have 
been  disinfected  from  the  plague;  give  them 
thirty  years,  thirty  normal  years,  to  cleanse  them- 
selves from' pollution,  to  wash  themselves  of  their 
guilt,  and  they  will  be  the  only  victors  of  the  great 
war. 

To-day  there  are  more  men  unemployed  in 
England  than  in  Germany  and  Austria.  Bulgaria 
recruits  her  sons  and  daughters  for  constructive 
service  to  the  state,  and  solidifies  her  possessions; 
w^hile  the  kingdom  of  the  Serbs,  Croates  and 
Slovenes   drills    soldiers,   passes   restrictive   laws. 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  179 

and  Is  like  a  barrel  gone  dry,  the  hoops  unable  to 
hold  the  staves  together. 

The  spectre  of  Bolshevism  has  given  the  reac- 
tionaries everywhere  a  chance  to  fear  and  arrest 
social  progress;  while  the  liberals,  the  liberated 
men,  the  onward  moving  men,  have  been  hindered 
and  damned  by  being  opprobriously  labelled.  The 
reactionaries  label  them  Bolsheviks,  and  the  Bol- 
sheviks call  them  reactionaries ;  so  between  the  re- 
actionary Nationalist  and  the  Bolshevist,  the  Lib- 
eral has  no  choice.  Both  are  materialistic  to  the 
core;  though  one  may  swear  by  the  Bible  and  the 
other  by  Karl  Marx. 

The  ashen-gray  men  and  women,  the  armies  of 
ricket-cursed  and  consumptive  children,  the 
wreckage  of  economic  life,  and  the  pauperization 
of  vast  multitudes,  are  the  same  in  nationalistic 
Warsaw,  Berlin  and  Vienna,  or  even  Glasgow, 
Birmingham  and  London — as  they  are  In  Bolshe- 
vik Petrograd,  Kiev  and  Moscow. 

Warsaw  Is  full  of  beggars;  Insistent,  dirty, 
vermin  eaten;  Moscow  Is  full  of  beggars; 
ashamed,  fairly  clean,  their  clothes  Ineffectively 
mended. 

The  ruin  caused  by  reactionary,  capitalistic  na- 
tionalism is  old — It  Is  the  ruin  of  the  masses,  the 
ruin  caused  by  machines,  coal  dust,  gas  fumes, 
narrow  tenements,  seasonal  occupations,  periods 
of  unemployment,  periodic  wars. 

Bolshevism  wrecked  the  corpse  of  an  Empire. 


180      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

Its  wreckage  is  new.  The  flotsam  and  jetsam  of 
Petrograd  and  Moscow  are  more  pathetic  because 
more  recent.  Pauper  princes,  professors  and 
technicians;  pauperized  millionaires,  heirs  and 
heiresses,  are  new  and  terrible;  yet  no  more  ter- 
rible than  the  destruction  caused  by  the  older  sys- 
tem. Neither  the  old  nor  the  new  system  cares  a 
fig  for  the  Kingdom  of  God,  an  applied  Christian- 
ity, a  practical  brotherhood  or  a  genuine  interna- 
tionalism. Both  want  power;  not  Peace  and 
Good  Will. 

All  through  Europe  I  found  a  feeling,  freely 
expressed,  that  at  a  critical  moment  in  the  world's 
history,  organized  religion  failed  to  fulfill  its 
claims  as  a  bringer  of  peace.  The  hopes  mankind 
placed  in  it  were  not  realized,  for  the  churches 
failed  to  function,  except  as  an  amen!  to  the  re- 
actionary, Pagan  state. 

The  Church  gave  its  all  to  Caesar;  even  that 
which  was  God's,  the  folds  of  the  flags  obscured 
the  cross,  and  the  great  sacrifice  of  Calvary 
seemed  in  vain, 

"  Had  the  churches  functioned,"  men  say ; — 
preachers  and  bishops  say  it  now — "  had  the  na- 
tions been  permeated  by  Christian  idealism,  had 
they  dominated  by  the  power  of  holiness,  the  great 
war  calamity  might  have  been  averted."  Sermons 
now  are  full  of  assertions  that  militaristic  force 
is  futile  in  settling  quarrels  between  nations,  that 
besides  being  unchristian   it   is   impractical;   and 


THE  MI^'D  OF  EUliOrE  181 

not  only  ministers  say  it,  but  also  professors,  es- 
sayists, political  economists,  sociologists.  They 
are  saying  it  between  wars,  however,  when  it  is 
safe  to  say  it. 

During  the  war,  the  majority  of  ministers  in- 
voked the  war  God  to  grant  victory.  They  har- 
nessed the  lowly  Nazarene  to  the  cannon  and  put 
Him  into  the  trenches  to  help  in  the  killing  and 
the  maiming.  They  veiled  the  New  Testament 
and  unveiled  the  Old;  they  ignored  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount,  and  chanted  the  imprecatory 
Psalms. 

If  the  Church  or  its  ministry  were  faithful  to 
the  Spirit  and  teachings  of  Jesus  during  one  war; 
if  the  state  knew  it  could  not  use  the  Church  as  a 
recruiting  station,  and  as  a  laboratory  for  the  cul- 
ture of  fighting  morale,  it  might  be  less  willing  to 
rush  into  war.  Of  course  the  Church  would  suf- 
fer martyrdom;  but  is  it  not  time  that  it  should 
be  willing  to  assume  the  Apostolic  function  of 
suffering  for  truth's  sake? 

While  organized  religion  the  world  over  failed 
in  this  great  crisis,  and  the  multitudes  were  turn- 
ing from  the  churches,  Europe  is  spiritually 
hungry,  and  when  a  man  cries  with  some  show  of 
authority,  "  Lo  here,  and  Lo  there !  "  masses  of 
men  rush  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  eternal,  and  all 
sorts  of  religious  vagaries  prosper,  while  the 
Church  languishes  and  decays. 

There  is  an  outspoken  demand  that  Christianity 


182      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

manifest  itself  in  its  full  power,  by  accepting  the 
consequences  of  its  teachings;  or  cease  its  pretense 
of  being  the  Bride  of  Christ,  when  it  is  only  the 
concubine  of  Caesar. 

Every  traveller  from  abroad  is  met  by  the  ques- 
tion: "  What  does  Europe  think  of  America?  "  I 
should  not  care  to  answer  the  question  if  it  hinged 
upon  whether  we  have  maintained  our  place  in 
the  affection  of  our  Allies.  The  war  was  the 
honeymoon  of  the  Allies,  and  with  the  armistice, 
the  estrangement  which  leads  to  divorce  proceed- 
ings began,  Europe  loves  us  as  much  as  a  pa- 
tient loves  the  doctor  who  has  saved  his  life — 
until  he  presents  his  bill. 

Nowhere  was  I  received  with  open  arms  be- 
cause I  am  an  American,  nor  were  the  keys  of  any 
city  presented  to  me,  and  I  venture  to  say  that  I 
was  overcharged  when  the  tradesmen  saw  the  cut 
of  my  shoes ;  "  for  by  their "  shoes  "  ye  shall 
know  them."  Of  enmity  I  felt  none,  and  of 
grateful  affection  much,  and  that  we  owe,  not  to 
what  we  did  with  the  sword.  In  fact,  our  share 
is  apt  to  be  minimized  by  the  victors.  What  af- 
fection Europe  feels  for  us,  we  owe  entirely  to 
what  we  did  through  the  healing  hands  of  our 
nurses  and  social  workers,  to  the  splendid  and 
dramatic  work  of  Mr.  Hoover,  and  in  no  small 
degree  to  the  unassuming,  self-effacing  work  of 
the  Quakers. 

If  I  saw  Europe  in  the  gray  mist,  and  the  king- 


THE  MIND  OF  EUROPE  183 

doms  confused  and  confounded,  I  also  saw  the 
dawn  of  the  new  day,  and  felt  the  monitions  of 
the  coming  of  the  Kingdom  of  God.  I  am  not  a 
pessimist  who  believes  that  all  is  vanity,  and  that 
effort  is  vain,  and  that  the  world  is  going  to  its 
chosen  doom.  Nor  am  I  an  optimist,  who  thinks 
that  to  "  keep  smiling  "  will  rejuvenate  an  old  and 
wrinkled  continent.  I  am  an  idealist,  who  be- 
lieves that  a  better  world  is  possible,  that  a  better 
world  will  come. 

Everywhere  I  have  found  men  and  women  who 
want  this  better  world.  They  are  stretching  out 
their  hands  to  each  other  now,  across  the  healing 
trenches.  In  their  handclasp,  when  it  becomes 
firm  and  true,  and  in  their  faith,  when  it  becomes 
a  faith  for  which  they  are  ready  to  suffer  and  to 
die,  lies  the  hope  that  the  Christ  did  not  die  in 
vain,  and  that  His  tarrying  kingdom  is  coming. 


XVII 
VICE  VERSA 

THE  United  States  was  never  far  enough, 
nor  long  enough  removed,  for  me  to  see 
it  glorified  by  distance  or  clarified  by 
time.  Even  in  Europe  I  was  part  of  it,  its  people 
my  people,  its  God  my  God.  I  watched  Ameri- 
cans at  work,  and  was  too  often  within  the  hear- 
ing of  the  click  of  American  typewriters,  tabula- 
tors, cash  registers,  smooth  working  office  sys- 
tems, the  not  quite  so  smooth  American  voice,  the 
chug  and  rattle  of  hustling  Fords,  and  the  intoler- 
able jazz. 

I  ate  almond-bars  (the  kind  news-butchers 
drop  Into  your  lap),  chocolate  candies  ("name 
on  every  piece  "),  cookies  and  pies  ("  like  mother 
used  to  make"),  white  bread  ("baked  in  sani- 
tary ovens  and  wrapped  in  sanitary  oiled  paper") 
and  many  an  American  dinner,  from  soup  to  pie 
a  la  mode  (all  but  the  celery). 

I  found  America  spread  all  over  Central 
Europe — in  peanut-butter,  cotton-seed  oil,  con- 
densed milk.  Star  Spangled  Banners,  oratory, 
Y.  M.  C.  A.'s  and  Y.  W.  C.  A.'s  Red  Cross,  Qua- 
kers, Rotarians,  war  zone  tourists,  bargain  hunt- 

X84 


VICE  VEESA  185 

ers,  and  a  few  badly  battered  fourteen  points 
which  have  survived  the  disastrous  Peace  of  Ver- 
sailles. 

America  is  the  ark  of  safety,  New  York  being 
Mount  Ararat,  and  Noah's  sons  having  their  of- 
fice in  Wall  Street;  America  is  the  Land  of 
Goshen,  and  Hoover  is  Joseph  in  Egypt ;  the  cap- 
itol  at  Washington  is  built  on  Mount  Sinai,  Hard- 
ing is  the  new  Moses,  and  "  Meester  Vilson  "  is 
Lucifer  fallen  from  Heaven. 

America  is  standing  on  the  financial  pinnacle, 
and  all  the  kingdoms  and  republics  are  spreading 
out  before  it.  Supreme  Councils,  League  of  Na- 
tions, Chambers  of  Commerce,  sick  currencies; 
decomposed  aristocracies,  demoniacs,  Magda- 
lenes,  and  tubercular  children  carried  by  weeping 
mothers,  are  all  crowding  to  be  helped  and  healed. 
America  could  do  "  signs  and  wonders "  if 
America  only  would. 

Yet  I  was  not  flattered  by  Europe's  cry  for 
America's  financial  miracles,  or  by  so  many  of  her 
people's  desiring  to  reach  the  "  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey."  I  wanted  Europe  to  believe 
that  we  have  the  spiritual  forces  they  need,  moral 
ideals  which  are  superior  to  theirs,  loftier  national 
aspirations;  and  that  America  not  only  invented 
the  great  war  slogan  "  to  make  the  world 
safe  for  democracy,"  but  that  democracy  Is  at 
least  safe  in  America.  Though  I  believed  that,  I 
could  not  prove  it,  for  Europe  was  critical  toward 


186      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

America,  and  disillusioned  about  its  newly  ac- 
quired liberties. 

The  immigrant  whom  I  met  some  years  ago, 
who  told  me  that  he  would  like  to  return  to 
America  to  give  his  children  a  chance  to  become 
American  citizens,  so  that  some  day  they  might  be 
able  to  say  with  him:  "  To wit'  de  Presi- 
dent! "  has  discovered  now  that  his  children  have 
that  coveted  chance  in  their  own  country,  and  that 
"  cuss  "  words,  as  well  as  fine  words,  "  butter  no 
parsnips " ;  though  they  may  add  spice  to  the 
sauce. 

I  suffered  great  humiliation,  when,  In  criticizing 
the  mediocrity  of  Europe's  political  leadership,  I 
was  asked  to  mention  any  of  ours  which  is  su- 
perior; or,  when  pointing  to  the  shameless  graft- 
ing in  the  new  republics,  I  was  reminded  that  I 
am  living  in  a  "  glass  house "  and  better  not 
"  throw  stones." 

In  Hungary  I  condemned  the  ruthless  repres- 
sion by  the  White  Army,  only  to  discover  that  the 
Hungarians  knew  of  our  raids  upon  immigrant 
quarters,  and  the  needless  suffering  of  inno- 
cent people  at  the  hands  of  our  Department  of 
Justice. 

I  found  pilgrims  returning  to  their  fatherland, 
bemoaning  the  fact  that  they  were  discriminated 
against  in  the  United  States  because  they  were 
immigrants.  They  had  suffered  from  our  mobs 
as  well  as  from  the  police.     Theirs  was  an  ugly 


VICE  VESEA  187 

story,  not  much  better  than  that  of  a  Russian 
pogrom. 

Yet  I  know  that  here  our  hates  have  not  eaten 
in  as  deeply  as  they  have  in  Europe,  though  the 
colour  line  has  reached  the  heart  line,  and  deeper 
it  cannot  go.  It  is  true  that  the  law  has  not  al- 
ways been  the  same  to  the  home-born  and  to  the- 
strangers,  that  the  word  foreigner  now  has  an 
ominous  sound;  but  on  the  whole,  the  situation  is 
much  worse  in  many  of  the  European  countries. 

While  the  United  States  is  no  longer  an  asy- 
lum, it  is  not  a  jail,  and  the  chance  to  become  one 
of  the  "  household  of  faith,"  is  much  better  here 
than  anywhere  else. 

Bernard  Shaw,  who  preferred  not  to  visit  us, 
fearing  the  Ku  Klux  Klan,  is  mistaken  when  he 
believes  that  this  fanatic  organization  is  the  meas- 
ure of  America's  tolerance  and  sympathy.  Mr. 
Ford's  anti-Jewish  propaganda  does  not  propa- 
gate very  fast. 

Anti-Semitism  in  the  United  States  is  still 
something  like  German  measles — catching  but  not 
dangerous,  and  may  always  remain  one  of  our 
minor  diseases,  provided  the  Jewish  people  do  not 
forget  "  the  hole  out  of  which  they  were  dug,  and 
the  pit  out  of  which  they  were  hewn."  Anti- 
Semitism  is  fed  by  arrogance,  a  common  failing 
among  all  peoples  suddenly  relieved  of  their 
handicaps. 

A  Jew,  to  become  a  good  American,  must  do 


188      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BORDEES 

much  more  than  change  his  over-euphonious  name 
into  one  of  Anglo-Saxon  origin.  The  American 
people  are  apt  to  recognize  a  gentleman  or  lady, 
no  matter  of  what  race,  even  as  they  are  over- 
sensitive to  rudeness  and  boisterousness.  If  they 
do  not  see  the  beam  in  their  own  eyes,  and  do  see 
the  mote  in  that  of  the  alien,  it  only  proves  that 
they  are  very  human. 

Many  of  the  national  diseases  in  Europe  are 
chronic,  ours  are  acute;  dangerous  but  curable. 
I  still  believe  that  our  nation  as  a  political  unit 
is  safer  than  any  European  power,  certainly  as 
safe,  and  that,  in  spite  of  our  ethnic  confusion. 

There  are  growing  chasms  between  capital  and 
labour,  a  yawning  gulf  between  black  and  white, 
rifts  between  Catholics  and  Protestants  and  be- 
tween Jews  and  Gentiles;  but  I  believe  that 
some  of  them  can  be  bridged,  and  others  can  be 
healed. 

I  do  not  believe  that  this  can  be  done  by  in- 
sistence upon  rights,  but  by  conviction  of  wrongs. 
Minorities  must  learn  that  they  cannot  compel 
majorities,  and  majorities  will  have  to  learn  that 
their  safety  Is  jeopardized  unless  they  deal  justly 
with  minorities. 

In  Europe  I  realized  anew  the  problem  of  the 
Immigrant  in  the  United  States.  After  all,  there 
is  a  sense  of  solidarity,  of  national  security  in  a 
nation  which  is  not  only  politically  a  unit,  but 
ethnically  and  linguistically  as  well;  although  but 


VICE  VEESA  189 

few  of  the  European  nations  have  attained  such 
enviable  unity.  However,  I  sensed  a  Httle  more 
than  ever  before  the  feehng  of  revulsion  against 
the  masses  of  the  unlike,  who  came  here  in  such 
vast  numbers,  the  sorted  and  the  unsorted,  the 
well-bred  and  the  ill-bred,  that  heedless,  hungry 
throng  at  the  bottom  rung  of  the  economic  lad- 
der, with  their  blank  faces,  their  faces  full  of 
terror,  and  anger.  Their  strange  speech  and 
strange  ways  gave  the  natives  just  fear  for  the 
delicate  things  of  the  spirit,  which  are  none  too 
safe  in  our  heedless  democracy. 

The  Americans  feel  that  the  immigrants  have 
pushed  them  hard  in  industry  and  business;  but 
they  have  pushed  many  of  them  up,  even  the 
laggards.  They  have  crowded  America's  jails 
and  asylums,  even  the  gallows ;  but  also  they  have 
filled  her  factories  with  honest  labour,  her  fields 
with  conscientious  toil,  and  her  banks  with  accu- 
mulating wealth,  much  of  it  hard  earned  and 
honest.  They  have  offended  by  poor  taste  and 
bad  manners,  some  of  which  they  imported, 
though  some  were  cheap  imitations  of  the  cheap 
things  they  found  here.  Yet  they  also  have  set 
standards  for  art,  and  have  struggled  to  retain 
native  gifts  against  heavy  odds  and  great  handi- 
caps. Some  of  them  did  resent  the  usurpation  of 
power  by  the  few,  when  that  power  was  not 
wielded  for  the  public  good.  They  did  see  red 
when  the  crimson  tide  swept  across  the  earth — 


190      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

but  they  were  not  yellow  when  the  bugles  called 
to  battle,  and  they  were  called  upon  to  lay  down 
hard-earned  treasure  and  life,  upon  the  altar  of 
our  country. 

Here  and  there  in  old  Europe  I  found  the  spirit 
of  revival,  or  the  renewal  of  spirit,  while  here 
and  there  in  America,  I  see  the  wrinkles  of  old 
age,  though  we  are  a  young  people;  but  youth  is 
no  virtue  unless  we  remain  young  while  we  are 
growing  old,  and  being  old  is  no  sin,  unless  we 
grow  old  when  we  are  young. 

In  Europe  I  felt  our  youthfulness  in  the  energy 
of  those  restless  Americans  with  whom  I  asso- 
ciated, in  their  hopefulness  as  well  as  their 
thoughtlessness ;  in  their  undimmed  faith  in  them- 
selves and  their  country;  in  their  adaptability, 
their  fine  courage  in  the  face  of  odds.  Beside  the 
Europeans  with  whom  they  work,  they  are  like 
cubs  beside  sedate  old  bears,  or  like  frisking  pup- 
pies with  well-mannered,  old  dogs.  They  have 
the  same  difficulty  in  living  and  working  to- 
gether as  older  people  have  with  the  young,  al- 
though they  are  of  the  same  age. 

I  recall  a  young  woman  from  Chicago,  who 
landed  in  Warsaw,  and  after  living  there  for 
twenty-four  hours,  said  that  she  could  put  Poland 
on  the  medical  map.  She  had  the  sublime  assur- 
ance that  if  she  could  give  a  demonstration  in  first 
aid,  and  deliver  lectures  on  sanitation  in  her  mid- 
western  English,  Poland's  century-old  sores  would 


VICE  VERSA  191 

be  healed,  and  it  would  be  cleansed  from  its  tra- 
ditional dirt. 

Europe  is  old,  and  we  Americans  disturbed  it 
not  a  little  by  our  noisy  playfulness.  We  dis- 
turbed Granny's  nap,  and  she  growled  at  us  and 
said  many  a  time,  "  You  are  old  enough  to  know 
better."  She  did  not  realize  that  we  are  the  chil- 
dren of  a  young  nation,  whose  spring  fever  is 
baseball,  and  whose  autumn  ague  is  football, 
which  are  the  diseases  of  childhood;  that  they 
are  infectious,  and  that  our  National  motto  is: 
"  United  We  Yell."  We  are  still  in  the  "  gang  " 
age,  a  nation  of  joiners.  In  the  old  world  they 
have  a  carnival  once  a  year;  but  in  the  United 
States  we  have  with  us  always,  the  Shriners,  Ro- 
tarians,  Kiwanis,  Lions,  etc.  Even  dignified 
Chambers  of  Commerce,  when  in  session,  sing, 
shout  city  slogans,  and  rah !  rah !  rah ! 

The  youngest  among  the  Americans  I  met  in 
Europe  were  those  from  the  young  West;  the 
oldest  came  from  the  East;  the  most  virile  and 
adaptable  were  the  children  of  the  pioneers,  who 
are  not  too  far  removed  from  the  prairie  schooner 
or  the  steerage.  Those  who  could  handle  axes, 
plows  and  tractors,  and  find  joy  in  cranking 
Fords,  were  the  young;  those  who  carried  their 
golf  clubs  with  them,  and  were  unhappy  when 
•out  of  sight  of  Pullmans,  esculators  and  elevators, 
■were  the  ones  who  showed  our  advancing  old  age. 
America    seems    clean,    at    least    not    cjuite    so 


192      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

*'  mussed  up  "  as  Europe,  where  all  restraint  has 
been  thrown  to  the  winds.  We  are  adolescent  and 
Europe  is  the  seasoned  rounder;  though  we  are 
plunging,  and  in  the  last  twenty  years  have  lived 
fast  and  furiously.  We  are  eating  of  the  forbid- 
den fruit  as  fast  as  Eve  can  pluck  it,  and  it  is  no 
longer  from  any  particular  tree  but  from  every 
variety,  growing  thick,  where  once  was  Paradise. 
Neither  do  we  hide  ourselves  in  the  garden  when 
we  hear  the  footfall  of  God  walking  there,  and 
Eve's  wardrobe  does  not  suggest  that  she  is 
ashamed. 

In  Europe  I  found  the  young  revolting  against 
the  cultural  and  political  standards,  set  up  by  the 
middle-aged,  and  seeking  their  liberty  in  clean 
speech  and  sensible  attire,  wholesome  relations  be- 
tween the  sexes,  and  companionship  with  nature. 
There  is  no  such  movement  In  the  United  States, 
coming  from  among  themselves.  We  have  Chris- 
tian Endeavour  Societies  and  Epworth  Leagues; 
but  they  are  efforts  to  impose  the  piety  and  rules 
of  conduct  of  the  middle-aged  upon  the  young, 
and  are,  on  the  whole,  ineffective. 

There  is  no  young  America  in  politics,  or  in 
religious  and  social  life.  "Follow  the  leader"  is 
inbred  in  our  children.  Our  college  youth  occa- 
sionally runs  amuck;  but  always  in  standardized 
form.  It  storms  the  movies  and  parades  in  pa- 
jamas, as  formerly  it  stole  the  chapel  bell  or  car- 
ried   "  Prexy's "    cow    into    the    recitation   hall. 


VICE  VESEA  193 

College  dress,  college  behaviour,  college  sports 
and  forms  of  hazing  are  of  the  approved  sort,  and 
\voe  unto  the  Freshmen  who  wear  coloured  socks, 
or  broad-toed  shoes  when  the  upper  classmen  de- 
cree otherwise. 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  I  was  the  guest  of  a 
college  president  in  the  East,  one  of  the  many  col- 
lege presidents  who  believed  that  the  war  would 
cleanse  our  American  youth,  wuth  its  besom  of 
fury.  He  told  me  that  after  the  Armistice,  he 
was  glad  to  see  the  spirit  of  restlessness  which  had 
crept  among  his  students.  He  hoped  that  they 
would  revolt  against  poor  teaching,  padded  lec- 
tures, against  the  insincerities  of  campus  life,  the 
corruption  of  athletics,  and  the  control  of  the  col- 
lege by  "  old  grads."  He  encouraged  the  coming 
revolution,  and  one  day  a  committee,  appointed 
by  the  student  body,  appeared  in  his  office.  The 
chairman,  an  ex-service  man,  thus  addressed  him: 

"  Mr.  President,  we  have  a  serious  complaint  to 
make  against  the  college." 

Prexy's  heart  rejoiced.  The  time  had  come' 
The  great  moment!  War's  spiritual  results! 
The  renewal  of  college  life! 

"  Speak  on! "  he  urged  the  stammering  youth. 

"  Mr.  President,  our  first  complaint  is,  that  we 
have  only  one  dance  a  month,  and  we  want  a 
dance  once  a  week :  and  the  second  is,  that  we  are 
served  bread-pudding  twice  a  week;  and  we  be- 
lieve that  once  is  enough." 


194      OLD  TEAILS  AND  KEW  BORDEES 

The  revolution  in  our  colleges  is  safely  over. 
The  lid  is  off  on  dances,  and  is  on  over  bread- 
pudding. 

In  Europe,  educators  see  salvation  from  the 
prevailing  immortality,  by  establishing  coeduca- 
tion. It  is  a  growing  movement;  while  in  the 
United  States  we  are  shaking  our  heads  doubt- 
fully, for  the  High  Schools  are  eaten  through  by 
sex  scandals,  and  the  college  campus,  the  green, 
sweet-smelling  campus,  is  not  as  safe  as  it  used  to 
be. 

In  the  pioneer  stage,  especially  in  the  West, 
where  the  pioneers'  struggle  was  prolonged  by 
droughts,  grasshoppers  and  cyclones — when  a 
college  education  meant  a  struggle,  coeducation 
was  safe  and  sane.  It  is  at  least  a  question 
whether  to-day  it  is  either. 

In  many  of  our  colleges  young  women  come  to 
the  class-room  dressed  as  if  a  semester  were  one 
long  tea  party,  with  interruptions  for  dances  and 
movies.  Pampered  young  men — mothers'  dar- 
lings— come,  with  high-powered  cars  and  low- 
powered  brains,  and  the  elective  system  enables 
them  to  choose  a  course  which  teaches  them  to  do 
nothing,  gracefully. 

The  pioneer  spirit,  now  almost  unknown,  was 
the  marrow  of  youth  in  the  nation,  and  we  are 
growing  old  to  the  degree  of  the  drought  in  our 
bones,  the  signs  of  which  are  here.  The  passing 
of  the  West  marks  the  passing  of  youth;  to  find 


VICE  VEESA  195 

a  new  West,  in  industry  and  commerce,  is  not  as 
easy  as  it  was  in  agricultural  days,  when  land 
could  be  had  for  the  touch  of  the  plow,  and  for 
the  stringing  of  barbed  wire  around  a  quarter  sec- 
tion. It  was  easy  to  retain  the  virtues  of  youth 
when  we  were  challenged  by  long  journeys  in 
prairie  schooners  behind  a  pair  of  reluctant 
mules;  but  the  pressing  of  a  pedal  on  a  six-cylin- 
der car,  develops  neither  muscle  nor  patience,  not 
even  skill,  with  a  garage  at  every  crossroad. 

The  forests  of  Wisconsin,  the  unbroken 
prairies  of  Kansas  taught  men  self-reliance,  and 
made  labour  an  art,  a  sacrament  and  a  prayer. 
To  wield  golf  clubs  and  tennis  racquets,  to  ride 
ponies  at  polo,  to  win  a  game  or  a  tournament,  are 
quite  different  from  swinging  an  axe  or  guiding 
a  plow  over  stump-sown  fields;  and  the  acquiring 
of  a  homestead  is  in  quite  another  class  from  that 
of  "  developing  "  an  estate. 

The  achievement  now  is  to  remain  young  when 
we  are  growing  old,  and  national  youth,  or  even 
a  semblance  of  it,  cannot  be  bought  in  beauty  par- 
lours. It  is  not  in  lotions  and  cosmetics;  but  in 
acquiring  a  spiritual  personality,  a  national  will, 
in  harmony  with  the  will  of  God. 

In  Europe  I  was  very  fortunate  in  being  among 
young  Americans  who  owe  much  of  their  inspir- 
ing youth  to  this  very  fact.  They  were  whole- 
somely religious,  the  children  of  religious  parents, 
with  their  inheritance  not  quite  wasted.    Most  of 


196      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

them  were  Quakers,  generous  in  their  sympathy. 
Among  their  co-workers  were  Jews,  Roman 
CathoHcs,  Methodists,  EpiscopaHans;  and  some 
belonged  to  the  "  wild  religions  I  have  met "  in 
the  United  States  where  the  soil  is  favourable  to 
new  faiths.  The  Quakers  have  found  the  spirit 
of  youth  in  the  Spirit  of  God.  Though  theirs  is 
the  smallest  among  the  denominations,  without 
ritual,  or  sacrament,  or  ecclesiastical  machinery, 
they  showed  their  strength  at  a  time  when 
strength  needed  to  be  more  than  human.  They 
withstood  the  nation's  fiat,  when  resistance  was 
treason,  and  they  suffered  the  consequences. 
They  conquered  by  relying  upon  the  strength  of 
God,  and  that  is  no  cowardly  escape  into  pious 
platitudes.  Those  who  let  God  be  the  hammer 
are  not  spared  being  the  anvil.  That  is  His  way 
of  testing  the  faith  of  the  faithful. 

Branded  by  the  stigma  of  the  prison  and  pale 
from  confinement  there,  many  of  them  came,  to 
prove  their  strength  and  courage — the  courage  of 
the  solitary.  I  watched  with  awe,  and  reverence, 
those  fighters  of  typhus,  those  heroes  on  the  hun- 
ger line,  who  came  out  of  lice-infested  villages  for 
a  breath  of  clean  air,  for  linen  and  soap;  then 
plunged  into  tlie  repellent  mass  again. 

I  shall  never  forget  Arthur  Watts,  an  English 
Quaker,  emerging  from  the  despair  of  Moscow, 
triumphant,  like  a  young  god,  and  as  unconscious 
of  his  power  as  a  child. 


VICE  YEKSA  197 

Anna  Haines,  from  Massachusetts,  alone, 
amidst  the  red  terror  of  revolution  and  the  white 
terror  of  starvation.  They  were  true  to  the  voice 
of  God  within,  undisturbed  by  the  tumult,  the 
shouting  of  the  multitude. 

America  needs  religion,  if  it  is  to  be  saved  from 
the  paralysis  of  old  age.  It  cannot  be  saved  by 
advertising,  by  spurious  conversions,  inflated  sta^ 
tistics,  bowling  alleys,  swimming-pools,  and  lec- 
ture courses.  It  can  be  saved  only  by  the  heroism 
of  men  and  women,  who  take  upon  themselves 
the  consequences  of  Christian  living. 

In  Europe  I  learned  anew  that  America  is 
worth  saving,  that  she  must  be  saved  if  a  Chris- 
tian civilization  is  ever  to  be  established,  and  such 
a  civilization  must  have,  first  of  all,  reverence  for 
the  human.  Jesus  made  that  the  cornerstone  of 
His  teaching.  He  took  little  children  and  blessed 
them.  He  performed  miracles  of  healing  and 
feeding.  He  lifted  man  above  Sabbath  rigour, 
above  the  temple  profiteers.  He  told  the  scribes 
and  the  Pharisees  who  wished  to  confuse  Him  by 
their  questions,  that  a  man  was  of  more  value 
than  a  sheep,  as  He  wishes  us  to  say  that  a  man 
is  worth  more  than  all  the  stockyards  in  America, 
all  the  bonds  and  banks,  all  the  stores  and  fac- 
tories; "  for  what  doth  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  " 

Religion  which  is  to  save,  or  rather  make  for  a 
Christian  civilization — for  as  yet  tliere  is  no  such 


198      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  B0EDER9 

civilization — must  bridge  the  chasm  between  the 
like  and  the  unlike,  it  must  make  Brotherhood 
real.  It  is  no  task  for  spiritual  pigmies,  thin- 
skinned  pipers  of  popular  preachments,  hunters 
for  big  salaries,  but  a  task  for  noble,  brotherly 
men. 

In  Europe  I  saw  my  glorious  pageant  again, 
the  pageant  which  the  war  had  broken  up,  and 
which  had  sent  the  actors  scurrying  to  their  sev- 
eral corners.  It  is  forming  once  more,  but  the 
order  is  not  the  same.  Those  who  were  first  are 
last,  there  are  shrunken  columns,  halting  steps, 
faded  flags,  empty  places,  and  the  actors  are  not 
quite  sure  of  their  positions  and  lines.  All  of  them 
look  intently  to  America,  the  chosen  one,  leading 
them  all  past  Marah's  bitter  springs,  to  Elim's 
sweet  fountains.  Can  America  ascend  the  smok- 
ing Sinai  and  bring  down  the  law,  graven  by  the 
finger  of  God?  Has  she  the  clean  hands,  the 
heart  above  national  vanity?  Can  she  ascend  the 
Holy  Hill  ?  She  can  bring  down  Manna  to  starv- 
ing people,  quail  for  those  who  are  hungry  for 
fleshpots;  but  can  she  make  them  fear  God  and 
keep  His  commandments?  Can  she  trust  in  the 
law  of  love?  There  is  a  promised  land  beyond  Si- 
nai, beyond  struggles  with  Amalekites,  Amorites, 
and  Philistines;  beyond  tribal  wars  and  jealous 
tribal  gods.  It  is  in  that  direction  that  America 
must  lead,  and  if  not  America,  then  we  who  are  of 
the  nations, — even  if  the  nations  know  us  not,  and 
America  acknowledge  us  not. 


XVIII 
THE  LAST  BORDER 

MY  heart  laughed  within  me  when  my 
face  again  turned  Westward,  for 
Westward  is  America  and  America  is 
home. 

My  thirty-fifth  Mayflower  sailing  from  Hol- 
land, stopping  at  Plymouth;  a  safe,  slow,  one- fun- 
nelled tub,  built  for  phlegmatic,  middle-class  folk, 
who  care  too  much  for  life  and  have  too  much  use 
for  time,  to  want  to  live  or  move  too  fast.  Dutch 
burghers,  who  ate  salt  herring  and  cheese  for 
breakfast,  sipped  Leyden  gin  and  smoked  big, 
cheap  cigars.  Unprofitable  passengers  they  are  to 
the  smoking-room  stewards,  who  prefer  Ameri- 
cans, of  whom  the  ship  carried  a  few,  not  of  the 
profit-making  or  profitable  kind.  There  were  col- 
lege and  university  professors,  a  missionary  from 
Africa,  a  minister,  a  sedate,  separate  compart- 
mented,  Red  Cross  official,  a  jolly  bunch  of  Red 
Cross  nurses,  a  modestly-behaved  consul  and  his 
charming  wife,  and  one  couple  of  newly-acquired 
breeding  and  distinction,  and  so  conscious  of  both 
that  they  feared  to  lose  them  if  they  associated 
with  the  rest  of  us. 

Besides  the  Dutch  who  go  to  America  to  sell 

199 


200      OLD  TEAILS  AKD  I7EW  BONDERS 

tulips,  cheese  and  diamonds,  and  the  Americans 
ah^eady  mentioned,  there  were  many  immigrants 
in  the  first  cabin.  They  were  there  because  Uncle 
Sam  enforces  two  weeks'  quarantine  upon  the 
people  who  have  only  enough  money  for  a  second- 
class  passage;  while  various  bathings,  sweatings, 
combings  and  disinfectings  are  thrust  upon  those 
whose  still  leaner  pocketbooks  condemn  them  to 
the  steerage. 

In  the  first  cabin  were  many  old  people,  mostly 
parents  of  flourishing  immigrant  folk,  who 
spared  no  expense  to  get  their  kin  away  from  the 
[yoverty  and  gloom  of  Europe.  Old  people  they 
were  though  some  are  young  In  years;  for  each 
war  year  marked  ten,  in  heart,  and  mind,  and 
tissue. 

1  met  a  brilliant  Russian  Jewess,  a  physician, 
who  spoke  English  after  merely  glancing  at  a  dic- 
tionary. Ages  old  she  seemed,  though  only  some- 
where In  the  disillusioned  years  between  twenty- 
five  and  thirty.  She  revealed  to  me  the  tragedy 
of  pogroms,  the  horror  of  waves  of  war;  the 
terror  of  hunger  and  disease.  She  told  me  of  the 
pressure  of  isolation  upon  her  sensitive  mind, 
used  to  contact  with  art  and  literature,  and  shut 
up  for  seven  years,  not  in  a  prison  of  walls,  yet 
as  restrained  and  unfree  as  If  chained  to  a  block. 

A  German  couple  with  two  Interesting  children 
aboard  our  ship  had  lived  in  the  United  States 
for  years.     Thoroughly  American  in  their  love 


THE  LAST  BORDER  201 

for  this  country,  speaking  its  language  and  loyal 
to  it,  but  not  citizens,  merely  through  neglect,  the 
war  found  them  in  Germany  on  a  visit,  and  there 
was  no  escape.  Imagine  the  situation !  American 
in  their  sympathies,  surrounded  by  German  kin, 
German  soldiers,  and  German  propaganda.  The 
war  being  over,  there  came  the  tedious  years  after 
the  Armistice,  with  hopes  deferred;  till  now  at 
last,  they  were  returning  to  freedom.  They  left 
the  United  States  young  and  buoyant ;  they  return 
old,  very  old. 

The  old,  the  really  old  are  speechless,  and  often 
glistening  tears  alone  tell  the  story  of  homesick- 
ness, their  fear  of  this  late  transplanting,  the 
terror  of  the  sea,  and  questionings  of  the  future, 
which  gnaw  at  their  hearts.  I  loved  them  and 
tried  to  comfort  them,  painting  America  rosier 
than  it  is,  and  visioning  for  them,  their  joy  among 
their  children  and  grandchildren. 

The  second  cabin  was  full  to  overflowing. 
Happy  throngs,  immigrants  of  a  new  variety: 
artists  in  various  fields,  sculptors,  painters, 
dancers,  singers,  from  grand  opera  to  vaudeville; 
a  tenor  who  sings  the  high  C,  and  a  gymnast  who 
walks  the  tight  rope.  Both  proud  of  their  talents, 
and  generous  in  their  performance  for  their  fel- 
low-passengers. There  were  budding  violinists 
and  pianists  with  visions  of  Carnegie  Hall,  proud 
mammas  guarding  their  precious  assets,  the  one 
thing  the  war  has  not  destroyed.     All  sorts  of 


202      OLD  TKAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

purveyors  of  pleasure  there  were,  the  disinherited, 
side-tracked,  the  bankrupt,  the  noble  and  ignoble, 
driftwood  of  the  war. 

The  steerage  looks  empty,  with  its  two  hundred 
and  fifty  passengers  rattling  around  in  the  space 
so  often  crowded  by  2,500.  None  of  them  are 
giants  for  steel  mills,  and  none  of  them  have  taut 
muscle  for  digging  our  coal.  Most  of  those  who 
now  come  are  shabby  clerks,  erstwhile  officials 
and  officers,  landscape  gardeners  from  great  es- 
tates, trainers  of  dogs  and  horses,  and  there  were 
two  young  men,  graduates  of  a  German  beer- 
brewing  college,  who  had  not  heard  of  the  Vol- 
stead act. 

The  ship  was  somber,  as  all  Dutch  ships  are.  A 
thin,  stringed  quartet  played,  out  of  tune,  the 
Dutch  sipped  their  gin  undemonstratively,  and  the 
most  exciting  event  of  the  trip  was  a  shuffle- 
board  tournament,  out  of  which  I  emerged  with 
the  championship.  My  son  will  be  proud  of  his 
dad's  athletic  glory. 

There  was  a  dance,  but  no  abandonment  to  it ;  a 
concert  was  scheduled,  but  the  artists  were  not  in 
good  trim,  and  it  was  a  failure. 

The  ship's  run  was  slow  and  grew  slower,  ow- 
ing to  head  winds  and  poor  coal.  Every  one  was 
more  or  less  depressed,  especially  the  steerage 
passengers,  for  the  new  immigration  law  was  ef- 
fective and  most  of  the  immigrants  were  to  be 
landed  or  returned,  to  be  damned  or  saved,  by  the 


THE  LAST  BOEDER  203 

accident  of  their  birtii  under  this  flag  or  that,  and 
whether  the  three  per  cent,  measure  was  full  or 

not. 

Eleven  long,  dull  days,  and  then  the  dawn  of 
the  twelfth,  the  angry  gray  of  the  sea  turning  to 
gentler  blue,  the  air  heavy  from  the  heat  of  the 
shore,  land  birds  fluttering,  and  one  of  them  ven- 
turing upon  the  deck,  responsive  to  the  crumbs 
thrown  for  it. 

A  pencil-stroke  against  the  horizon — the  New 
World  which  I  had  hailed  dozens  of  times,  and 
hailed  again;  but  my  buoyancy  of  spirit  was  not 
shared  by  my  fellow-voyagers  who  were  hearing 
their  anxious  heart-beats  above  the  slow  churning 
of  the  sea. 

The  earth  has  changed  and  "all  that  therein 
is."  I  left  a  changed  Europe,  I  was  coming  back 
to  a  changed  America.  They  were  all  slow 
changes,  almost  unperceived,  suddenly  reaching  a 
dramatic  climax. 

One  of  my  fellow- Americans,  who  had  been 
making  a  decided  impression  upon  the  ship's 
cargo  of  gin,  and  who  grew  gloomier,  the  nearer 
we  came  to  the  Great  Sahara,  said  with  a  sigh, 
deep  with  measures  of  pints,  quarts  and  gallons, 
—"This  is  where  liberty  stops."  To  him  the 
change  was  one  of  alcoholic  content,  and  the  sigh 
was  for  the  good  old  times,  when  "  booze  "  could 
be  obtained  without  hazard,  and  getting  drunk 
was  comparatively  cheap. 


204      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDEES 

Many  of  the  Americans  I  met  abroad  saw  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty  with  a  black  eye,  her  torch  ex- 
tinguished by  near-beer. 

This  is  a  hard  time  for  popular  deities.  The 
golden  calf  is  suffering  from  tuberculosis,  and  its 
wasted  parts  are  restored  by  papier-mache. 

Mars,  having  worked  overtime  for  five  years, 
has  nervous  prostration;  for  fighting  on  land,  in 
the  air,  on  the  sea  and  under  the  sea,  keeps  even  a 
god  on  edge  and  he  would  like  to  retire,  if  hu- 
manity would  let  him. 

And  the  Goddess  of  Liberty!  What  sins  have 
been  committed,  what  blasphemies  have  been  ut- 
tered in  her  name !  When  I  passed  her  this  time 
I  thought  she  looked  anaemic  from  worry,  and  was 
ready  to  leave  her  snug  island. 

She  is  no  more  the  popular  goddess,  no  forest 
of  outstretched  arms  greeted  her,  no  thousand- 
throated  throng  acclaimed  her.  "  A  bas  Lib- 
erty!" they  say  now,  and  turn  their  backs  as  they 
pass  her.  I  wanted  to  comfort  her,  and  tell  her 
that  she  has  certainly  been  good  to  us,  to  millions 
and  millions  who  escaped  persecution,  poverty, 
filth  and  ignorance,  and  to  whom  she  has  so  gen- 
erously opened  the  way. 

It  was  not  easy  for  us,  yonder  on  Manhattan 
Island,  breathing  its  hard,  metallic  air,  buffeted  by 
the  heartless  throng;  but  many  of  us  fared  better 
than  we  deserved,  and  found  as  much  liberty  as 
we  were  capable  of  using. 


THE  LAST  BOEDER  205 

There  were  dozens  of  ships  at  quarantine, 
breathlessly  lying  at  anchor,  polluting  the  bay, 
food  for  the  watchful  gulls.  They  had  raced 
each  other  across  the  Atlantic,  and  lay  fretting  at 
the  bar.  Quarantine  officers  came  aboard  at  last, 
and  a  shiver  seemed  to  run  down  the  ship's  spine, 
for  there  was  typhus  in  Europe,  and  a  long,  dull 
quarantine  loomed  as  a  possibility.  They  were  in 
no  hurry.  The  steerage  passengers  were  searched 
to  the  seams  of  their  shirts,  and  the  slow  hours 
bred  one  rumour  after  another.  "  Vermin  has 
been  found ! "  And  that  meant  three  days  in 
quarantine.  "A  death  from  typhus !  "  And  the 
days  grew  into  weeks. 

The  bay  was  alive  with  craft.  A  sister  boat 
passed  us,  eastward  bound,  and  the  crew  sent  a 
roaring  greeting  to  the  "  home  folks."  A  ferry- 
boat manceuvered  gracefully,  and  passed  under 
the  nose  of  our  ship.  We  looked  down  upon  the 
workers,  who  were  bound  for  Manhattan,  and 
they  looked  at  us.  Some  friendly  souls  waved  to 
us,  and  we  accepted  the  salutation  as  a  wel- 
come. 

There  were  fishing  parties  in  frail  boats,  chug- 
ging tugs  pulling  long  fleets  of  loaded  barges,  sail- 
boats stretching  their  wings,  and  above  us  mili- 
tary planes,  purring  their  way  among  the  silent 
gulls. 

An  old  picture,  but  it  always  gives  me  new 
thrills,  and  I   felt  the  first,   deep  stirring  In  my 


206      OLD  TRAILS  AND  NEW  BORDERS 

soul,  since  I  had  sailed  out  of  this  harbour.  I 
feasted  my  eyes  on  the  low  hills  of  Staten  Island, 
the  forest  of  masts  and  funnels,  the  mighty  spans 
bridging  the  river,  and  in  the  background,  the 
Himalayas  of  business,  quarrelling  in  the  blue 
sky,  as  to  who  shall  be  the  greatest  in  the  King- 
dom of  Mammon, 

The  quarantine  boat  at  last  departed,  and  the 
ship  breathed  more  easily;  but  no  anchor  chains 
rattled,  and  we  waited  in  mute  anxiety.  Then  the 
boat  returned,  and  hope  was  changed  to  fear. 

Another  long  search  for  germs  and  germ  car- 
riers, then  it  went  away  for  good,  and  the  delayed 
immigrant  officers  came  on  board.  The  most  wel- 
come and  the  most  feared.  The  passengers  were 
divided  into  the  "  sheep  and  the  goats,"  the  aliens 
and  the  citizens.  I  have  seen  much  mental  an- 
guish among  immigrants,  but  none  to  compare 
with  the  percentage  torture.  The  attitude  of  the 
American  people  toward  the  immigration  problem 
is  reflected  in  the  treatment  of  steerage  passen- 
gers, and  the  journey  from  the  quarantine  to  Ellis 
Island  is  like  passing  from  the  police  court  to 
prison.  Rough  usage,  curses,  indelicacy  of  feel- 
ing, the  whole  environment  of  a  penal  institution 
at  its  worst,  surround  the  immigrant  who  comes 
in  under  the  new  law. 

The  percentage  law  will  always  be  a  cruel  law, 
unless  wisely  administered  and  generously  inter- 
preted: and  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  employ 


THE  LAST  BOKDER  207 

officials  who  are  not  strangers  to  gentlemanly  in- 
stincts. 

The  immigrant's  head  tax  of  $8  and  the  pass- 
port vise  of  $10,  should  entitle  him  to  fair  treat- 
ment, not  to  mention  our  boast  that  the  "  square 
deal "  is  an  American  virtue. 

The  cloud  of  uncertainty  was  at  last  lifted,  and 
after  ten  hours'  delay,  which  seemed  like  ten  days, 
we  were  being  pushed  into  our  dock.  One  more 
mild  torture,  the  customs  examination,  and  I  had 
crossed  the  last  border  and  was  home  again.  It 
was  my  most  solemn  home-coming,  and  I  thanked 
God  that  America  is  my  home ;  not  because  I  came 
from  among  starving  peoples  and  back  to  a  land 
of  comparative  plenty,  but  because  here  is  a  chance 
to  make  my  life  count,  in  the  struggle  against  the 
forces  v/hich  would  make  of  America  a  narrow, 
selfish,  brutal  counterpart  of  European  national- 
ism. 

I  have  grown  suddenly  old  and  not  a  little  dis- 
illusioned. I  know  the  odds  against  those  of  us 
who  see  the  Kingdom  of  God  afar,  and  who  want 
to  bring  It  near.  Nations  do  not  care  to  be  saved 
by  teachers  and  preachers,  but  by  politicians  and 
soldiers;  theirs  Is  as  yet  the  way  of  the  sword,  and 
not  of  the  cross.  I  would  be  a  poor  patriot,  how- 
ever, If  I  would  not  cast  my  life  Into  the  balance, 
make  war  upon  war,  and  oppose  the  Pagan  state 
which  has  room  only  for  a  tribal  god  and  for 
tribal  moralltv. 


208      OLD  TEAILS  AND  NEW  BOEDERS 

As  an  American  I  was  never  more  in  love  with 
my  country  than  now,  coming  as  I  do  out  of  the 
tombs  of  Empires,  and  from  the  grave  of  a  civili- 
zation. If  I  could,  I  would  save  my  country  from 
the  doom  of  Europe,  and  to  that  end  she  must 
think  with  the  international  mind  and  feel  with 
the  interracial  heart. 

Beyond  the  years  I  see  an  integrated  humanity, 
not  melted  into  a  bell,  but  shaped  into  chimes. 
Each  nation  rallying  around  the  note  which  woos 
its  heart,  out  of  which  come  its  songs  of  cheer, 
and  comfort  songs  for  the  dark  days;  but  all  the 
notes  shall  blend  with  each  other,  to  the  praise  of 
a  com.mon  Father.  That  day  is  coming,  and  it 
will  come  the  sooner,  if  America  attunes  herself 
now,  to  the  great  doxology. 


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